<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>What Would You Do? by freakofnature</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25271518">What Would You Do?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakofnature/pseuds/freakofnature'>freakofnature</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author!Kuroo, Childhood Friends, Childhood Trauma, Depiction of Depression, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Is An Adult, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injuries and Injury Aftercare, Intimacy Under the Influence, M/M, Nonsexual Anal Fingering, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Panic Attacks, Psychological Porn, Slow Burn, Stripper!Kenma, Tags Updated Through Chapter 10, Vomiting, other characters not mentioned in tags, unhealthy thoughts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:07:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>83,076</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25271518</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakofnature/pseuds/freakofnature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>history has a way of repeating itself, and Tetsurou is counting down the days when this too slips from his grasp</p>
</blockquote>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>98</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. ghost boy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello! After almost 4 years, I have returned to writing with a re-write of one of my first plotted fics! I hope you enjoy it a lot! As a warning, please pay attention to the tags as the chapters come out, but i will be posting warnings as well! However, due to the nature of this story, if at any point the tags or my warnings rub you the wrong way, i highly suggest you walk away as they are important to the overall plot of this fic. </p><p>Right, with that out of the way, I would like to say a round of thanks to my beta-reader/editor, my friend, and the only other person rn who will threaten kuroo with me, Milk! without them this fic would not have had such a smooth sailing. They've worked on other fic with me before (read: that kurokenhina), so doing this together has, as always, been a blast!</p><p>10/21/2020 edit: if you are new, this makes no sense to u, but yes i did change the summary and fic title bc i kept calling it wwyd in my head so. clearly it was meant to say as 'wwyd'. Anyways...</p><p>Fic title is taken from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1FbZvDba6ew">Already Gone by Sleeping At Last</a></p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Oh, Tetsurou look,” Koutarou makes a vague motion towards the stage as if the two of them are not watching the same thing, “the one on the right looks Asian! I’ve never seen an Asian pole dancer before!”</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The rapid thud of footsteps is the only thing that alerts Tetsurou of trouble and he drops his editing pen onto his desk just as an arm is thrown over his shoulders. The sudden weight makes him jerk forward in his chair, an aborted wheeze pushing the air from his lungs. <i>One of these days</i>, he mentally threatens, but doesn’t get much further.</p><p>“Bro! You’re coming out with us after work, right?” The words are spoken two decibels too loud for a normal office workspace, but when Tetsurou glances around his office, none of his coworkers seem to pay any mind to the commotion coming from his desk. “Please! Come out with us for drinks tonight!” The owner of the arm is none other than his best friend of fourteen years, Koutarou Bokuto.</p><p>Only when Koutarou dares to shake Tetsurou in his one-armed grip does Tetsurou turn to look at his friend. “No,” he states plainly, throwing Koutarou’s arm off his shoulders and ignoring the overly dramatic whine that sounds far from a grown man like himself. Seriously, one of these days Koutarou was going to dislocate one of his shoulders. “No one told me we were going out tonight, I have shit to do back at the apartment <i>someone</i> left me alone in.”</p><p>At this, Koutarou has the gall to look sheepish, his grin dropping in something akin to embarrassment. Of course, it doesn’t last long, as Koutarou had never been one to dwell on such matters. With the return of his ever-present grin, Koutarou plucks Tetsurou’s red editing pen off the desk and twirls it between his fingers. “So? You can put that off for another evening!” At Tetsurou’s blank look, he hurries to add, “If you go out with us tonight, I’ll come over with Keiji to help you reorganize! I promise!”</p><p>Before Tetsurou can disagree that he doesn’t <i>need</i> help, another voice pipes up from a few desks down, “Do not drag me into your promises, Koutarou.”</p><p>Tetsurou snorts, reaching up to grab his pen back from Koutarou’s loose grip, “Yeah, <i>Koutarou</i>,” he drawls, poking his best friend in the chest with a wide grin, “don’t go dragging precious Keiji into your broken promises.”</p><p>Surprisingly, Koutarou does not rise to the bait. Instead, he shakes Tetsurou’s chair, his lips pursed in a clear pout.</p><p>“Anyways!” Tetsurou weakly kicks Koutarou in the leg, sitting still in his chair for a moment to let the world settle. “Why should I even come out tonight? It’s Thursday and we have a meeting with Wakatoshi tomorrow morning. Y’all know he’ll skin us alive if we are even a <i>second</i> late.”</p><p>“But,” it’s only now that Koutarou deflates against the back of Tetsurou’s chair. “I’ve missed you; don’t you miss me?”</p><p>There’s a purposeful cough that interrupts the two of them before Tetsurou can respond. “I’m sure Tetsurou misses us all very much,” Keiji comments. “However, there will be no outing if you keep distracting him—and the rest of the office—with your antics, Koutarou. Please get back to work, you can talk to Tetsurou when you’re at the club. Right, Tetsurou?”</p><p>Tetsurou knows a threat when he hears one, and with nothing more than an eye roll, he acquiesces to Keiji demand. Next to him, Koutarou gives out a hoot of excitement, jostling Tetsurou once again.</p><p>It is then that their department’s intern walks back into the room, head barely clearing the doorway. Tetsurou wishes their intern were more like Keiji, but the younger man just surveys the barely controlled chaos, manuscript in hand forgotten.</p><p>“Lev—” Keiji tries to reign in yet another player, but fails when the intern—Lev—bounces towards Koutarou and Tetsurou.</p><p>For a moment, Tetsurou feels bad for Keiji—as their production manager he was tasked with maintaining the order in the workplace in order to ensure they all submitted their manuscripts on time—but when Koutarou starts to holler in excitement at the newcomer Tetsurou just feels bad for himself.</p><p>“Tetsurou!” Lev shouts, “I overheard you’re coming out with us!” The manuscript crinkles in his grip.</p><p>Tetsurou, unable to do anything but accept the situation, lets his head fall forward to connect with the wood of his desk. The resounding thud draws laughter from both annoying idiots next to him, until Keiji takes mercy and orders both to return to where they belong.</p><p>Somedays, Tetsurou debates the merits of working with his two best friends.</p>
<hr/><p>“How’s it been?” Lev asks during a lull in the conversation. Tetsurou looks up from his phone, raising an eyebrow to allow the intern to continue, “You know, adjusting to Koutarou not being there!”</p><p>Ah, “Fine,” Tetsurou replies, fingers tapping on the back of his phone mindlessly, “It’s an adjustment, that’s for sure.” God, he does not want to be here right now, why did Keiji—one of the most level headed employees in their department—agree to let everyone come out tonight?</p><p>“I heard from a little birdy that you and Koutarou roomed together for like…<i>forever</i>!” Lev puts his empty beer mug down a little too hard, jolting Tetsurou out of his thoughts, “It must be so weird!”</p><p>At this Tetsurou can only laugh, praying someone comes to save him from the overeager intern. “Yeah, we were roommates for fourteen years. Through university, then ten years after.” Before Lev could comment on anything else, he added, “The city was expensive, and we were both idiots, so rooming together made sense.”</p><p>“Yeah!” Without warning, Koutarou appears at Tetsurou’s elbow, a wide smile on his face and drinks in hand, “Remember when we shared a bed for like three years before we saved enough money to get into a better apartment?” Koutarou laughs as he sets the drinks down, the sound loud even against the noise of the club. “What an awful apartment that was!”</p><p>It’s impossible not to be endeared by Koutarou, who is equally the most easy-going person Tetsurou had ever had the pleasure of knowing and a complete force of nature. To distract himself from saying something like <i>I miss you</i>, Tetsurou looks around at the other tables their department had commandeered for the night.</p><p>“Yo!” a hand smacks just to the left of his spine, landing hard on his shoulder blade—and really what was people’s tendency to hit his shoulders? “How ya been, stranger? Did you finally remember we exist?”</p><p>Tetsurou whips around, lips pulled down in a frown as he meets the fiery golden gaze of none other than Saeko Tanaka. “What the fuck!” he grumbles, the pain from her smack still smarting, “Can you be gentler, you’re assaulting such a loyal customer.”</p><p>Saeko throws her head back to laugh, smacking Tetsurou once again as she does so, “Loyal customer? Funny, did you forget you haven’t been here in months! I bout forgot what your lanky ass looked like.” She laughs again, hi-fiving Koutarou.</p><p>Tetsurou often thinks that he needs better friends, since his current ones seem so keen on not only abusing him physically—honestly Koutarou was going to shatter something in his shoulder before they reached 35 at this rate—but verbally as well. He didn’t deserve half the slander they said to him, truly.</p><p>“Baby intern and Koutarou over here were the only saving graces you had, asshole,” Saeko says, her hip nudging against his side. He turns to look at her, but her gaze is focused on the tables around him, likely taking stock of which patrons needed their drinks refilled, “Kept gushing about that new book of yours.”</p><p>Just the mere mention of his new novel has Tetsurou ducking his head. He swallows his bashfulness with another sip from his nearly empty beer mug, “Ah, that. Yeah, it’s been a busy couple of months. Another best seller says my manager,” Tetsurou heaves a sigh, polishing his beer off and handing the empty mug to Saeko, “Definitely dodging his calls right now, he wants me to pick up a few television interviews.”</p><p>There’s scattered laughter from his coworkers nearby upon hearing <i>televised interview</i>, remembering the absolute train wreck that was the first and only television interview Tetsurou had ever done.</p><p>Something about fans of his work trying to deduce where he lived and his telephone number all because the author was hot just didn’t sit right with him. He’s avoided all public appearances since.</p><p>Keiji migrates to their table as Saeko taps out to go help her coworkers at the bartop downstairs. As she leaves, she promises to have someone bring up another round for them as soon as she can. He wishes her well before turning back to see Keiji sitting comfortably in Koutarou’s lap. In the previously empty chair now sits the department’s other production manager—a small but terrifying man by the name of Morisuke Yaku.<br/>
The five of them dissolve into meaningless work gossip, other coworkers offering their two cents as they pass by. Tetsurou gets lost in the simplicity of being with his friends—his coworkers—that he fails to notice the club getting busier until Koutarou starts to beg Keiji to go down to the dancefloor with him for a bit. Surprisingly Keiji gives in to Koutarou’s demands easily, sliding off his lap to allow his boyfriend to drag him down to the main floor.</p><p>Tetsurou catcalls after them, laughing when Keiji gracefully flips him off before he and Koutarou are swallowed by the other clubgoers.</p><p>“How much you wanna bet Keiji’s gonna throw that ass back?” Tetsurou leers at Morisuke, who balefully states back, “I’ll bet all my royalties from this new book.”</p><p>At that, Morisuke breaks his stare with a single sharp laugh, glancing in the direction that Keiji and Koutarou had disappeared to, “Keiji wouldn’t stoop so low,” he comments. Next to him, the intern winces and Tetsurou spies a grin on Morisuke’s lips.</p><p>Coworkers come and go, both from Keiji’s team and Morisuke’s. Tetsurou answers a few questions about his new book, but most of his time is spent talking to Lev. The intern, while shared between Keiji and Morisuke in a sort of co-parenting deal, had only started a few weeks before Tetsurou had taken time off to deal with the release of his novel.<br/>
As such, he knows little about the intern, aside from Keiji’s offhanded comment that Lev was just a bit scared of him.</p><p>Which was cute, really, but when Tetsurou was best friends with an idiot like Koutarou? Well, he couldn’t be all that terrifying, could he?</p><p>How much time passes, Tetsurou isn’t sure, but when Koutarou bullies his way between Tetsurou and the table <i>just</i> to sit on his lap, he knows that it’s getting late.</p><p>Koutarou’s cheeks are redder than they had been when Tetsurou last saw him—from dancing or drinking, Tetsurou isn’t sure. “Hey!” he best friend shouts, a wide grin ever present on his face.</p><p>Tetsurou can’t help but to smile back, “Hey, bro! Did y’all have fun?” he scoots the chair further away from the table to allow Koutarou to settle properly in his lap, “Did Keiji throw that ass back in a circle?”</p><p>In the seat next to him, Keiji splutters, but Tetsurou ignores it in favor of matching Koutarou’s growing leer.</p><p>“You know it! What a nice little—”</p><p>“<i>Koutarou!</i>” Keiji slams his hands on the table and Tetsurou looks over to see Keiji’s face beat red, fingers curling uselessly against the tabletop.</p><p>Koutarou deflates like Keiji had personally attacked him, tucking his head into the space between Tetsurou’s neck and shoulder, grumbling like the overgrown child Tetsurou knew he was.</p><p>“There, there, Kou,” Tetsurou mockingly soothes, “you ready to go home and sleep soon?” He pauses for a moment, remembering that he and Koutarou no longer live together. And although Keiji was sitting next to him, he asks, “Do you want me to tell Keiji you wanna go home now?”</p><p>Keiji meets Tetsurou’s eye as Koutarou wiggles around to wrap his arms around Tetsurou’s middle. With gentle laughter, Tetsurou runs his fingers through Koutarou’s already mussed up hair. When he looks up to talk to Keiji, the man only rolls his eyes and goes to gather their discarded work jackets before making his rounds to say his goodbyes.</p><p>Tetsurou sits there, for a moment watching Morisuke and Lev talk amongst themselves and then out into the decently crowded dance floor below him. There’s a lull in the music, piquing the interest of several clubgoers while others seem to know the deal and start weaving their way towards the unused stage.</p><p>While no stranger to the shows that the club puts on, Tetsurou is a little surprised to see a few dancers spill from backstage, each more scantily dressed than the last.</p><p>There are no more than five of them, two of them remain on stage and take their places behind the two poles on stage while the other three saunter down the stairs to the rest of the club patrons. Even from the second floor, Tetsurou can see the smiles on their faces as they mingle with the crowd.</p><p>The music remixes into a song that Tetsurou assumes is for a coordinated dance between the two strippers on stage. Even Koutarou sits up enough to look over at the stage, a soft whistle spilling from between his lips.</p><p>On stage, the two dancers look seemingly weightless against the pole, movement almost perfectly in sync as the song progresses.</p><p>“Oh, Tetsurou look,” Koutarou makes a vague motion towards the stage as if the two of them are not watching the same thing, “the one on the right looks Asian! I’ve never seen an Asian pole dancer before!”</p><p>Tetsurou follows his instruction, taken aback that the stripper on the right <i>did</i> in fact look Asian from where they were sitting. He watches as the dancer grinds against the pole before twisting himself upside down. In the lights of the club, Tetsurou notes that the stripper’s hair almost looks silver, but the dark roots visible from where they sat bellied that the color was not natural.</p><p>At the end of the song, the two strippers give a short bow to the patrons watching them, and then proceed to collect the cash that had been thrown at them during their routine. Tetsurou watches as the Maybe Asian Stripper sways for a moment before righting himself. With a grin thrown down to a few of the clubgoers below, the stripper gathers his hair up into a loose bun before turning around and shaking his ass as the crowd below gives their cheers.</p><p>It’s only when the man turns around and chances a glance into the VIP section on the second floor does Tetsurou’s heart stop for a moment.</p><p>
  <i>Kenma.</i>
</p><p>Tetsurou’s blood seems to freeze in his veins as his eyes stay glued to the man—the man that looks like Kenma—gives a short wave to some of the patrons standing nearest to the stage. The man even goes so far as to crouch down to take the money being waved at him. Tetsurou watches, transfixed, as the stripper staggers once more as he moves to stand up. This time, the other dancer is near enough to help steady him, but Tetsurou barely pays them any mind as he stares at the blond-haired figure.</p><p>If it was Kenma, which logically makes no sense to Tetsurou since Kenma had disappeared sixteen years ago from this very city, then he was as thin as ever, which was worrying enough. Taller for sure, as is expected.</p><p>Koutarou makes a questioning noise, the hand he kept wrapped around Tetsurou’s middle squeezing to get his attention. Just as Tetsurou moves to look away from the Kenma-similar stripper, the man looks up into the VIP section, freezing Tetsurou once again in place.</p><p>The stripper doesn’t seem to notice Tetsurou’s frozen gaze, but still manages to stare up at their section with a defiant shimmer in his golden eyes.</p><p>“Koutarou?” Keiji calls, breaking the tension held in Tetsurou’s body. “It’s time to go home.”</p><p>Tetsurou laughs as he and Koutarou struggle to push away from the table enough to get Koutarou out of his lap, and even still his best friend stumbles away, catching himself on Keiji’s shoulder.</p><p>“Remember,” Tetsurou calls to the coworkers milling around their table, “Meeting with Wakatoshi at nine tomorrow!”</p><p>Keiji only gives a nod in understanding, but Koutarou, and a few of the other higher management that had to report to work earlier than expected, groans. Tetsurou saves his amusement for tomorrow morning when half of the team would surely show up in varying states of misery.</p><p>“Lev, you have to show up too,” Morisuke snaps at the laughing intern, who immediately chokes on his laughter and falls silent, “It will be a good experience for you.”</p><p>Tetsurou has to laugh at that as Lev sulks against the table, whining to the short production manager. Although Tetsurou feels no pity for the young intern, he makes a mental note to bring the office coffee and bagels to help wake them up.</p><p>Before they take their leave, Koutarou places a wet kiss on Tetsurou’s cheek, throwing Tetsurou back to their college days where drinking was a means to an end to forget about coursework. He laughs at his friend’s antics, commenting offhand that they were old men now, before he sends him off with his boyfriend to go home.</p><p>To a home that is no longer with Tetsurou, after fourteen years. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, even months after the fact.</p><p>With the department’s power couple now departing, Morisuke begins to wrap up their department outing, gathering everyone’s attention with a single clap of his hands.</p><p>As he dishes out instructions to their shared coworker’s, Tetsurou takes this as an opportunity to say a quick goodbye and make his way out of the VIP section of the club.</p><p>Somehow, he manages to wiggle his way through the crowded main floor and through the front door. With a nod to the bouncer, Tetsurou makes his way around the building to the back, hoping the man that reminded him of Kenma had yet to leave. Maybe he could catch him and just <i>confirm</i>, to ease his mind a little.</p><p>And while Tetsurou hopes that the stripper had been Kenma, <i>is</i> Kenma, sixteen years is a long time to not have answers. It’s worrisome how something from his past has haunted him so heavily almost two decades later, and a part of Tetsurou knows. Some things are better left unanswered.</p><p>Tetsurou belatedly notices, as he’s stared down by the bodyguard next to the back door, just how <i>creepy</i> it is to wait around for some stripper to walk out of those doors. Or worse, to ask the guard if he could talk to one of the dancers. Judging from the size of the guard’s muscles, and the glare that has been digging into Tetsurou’s skin for the better part of ten minutes, it’s not the first time some man from the club had tried to proposition a dancer for something.</p><p>Well, Tetsurou thinks as he shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, he was here anyways, he might as well give an <i>attempt</i>.</p><p>“I’m going to preface this with, I’m not trying to be creepy.” As the words fall from Tetsurou’s mouth, he realizes this makes him sound even <i>creepier</i> after standing across the alley for ten minutes. Judging by the way the guard angles his body towards Tetsurou, he seems to think so too.  </p><p>Fuck.</p><p>“Shit, that makes me sound even worse! Sorry,” Tetsurou rocks back onto his heels, sighing into the early summer air, “There was a strip—dancer, that performed tonight. I wanted to talk to him.” He pauses to gather his thoughts, meeting the guard’s unnerving stare, “I couldn’t get to him by the time I got out of the VIP section, and I...I was wondering if I happened to know him from elsewhere.”</p><p>The guard says nothing for a long while, and Tetsurou is just about ready to bid the bulky man a good night and hope he’s not tackled to the ground when the man speaks,  “Who are you looking for?”</p><p>Tetsurou takes a moment, knowing that if this dancer <i>wasn’t</i> Kenma, calling him Kenma wasn’t going to get him anywhere. “He was blond, not naturally he had dark roots. And it was longish, he had it in a bun for most of the performance, I didn’t see very well honestly.” At the guard’s blank look, Tetsurou adds, “I think he was Asian, if that helps.”</p><p>The guard nods once, “The man you are looking for has left for the night. I can take a name, if he wants to talk to you, he will find a way.”</p><p>The way it’s worded seems odd, but Tetsurou is not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. So with a smile, he says, “Tetsurou. Tetsurou Kuroo.”</p><p>And with that, he turns around and heads home. Alone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Updates will be every 3 weeks! If, for some reason, there is a change in that schedule, i will post about it on my twt! </p><p>its been like 4 years since i formatted a chapter, i forgot i hate adding in the tags for italics, and i forgot that i love USING italics....this is gonna b a long ride!</p><p>As always, please lemme kno what yall think!! (if you find spelling errors or smth pls lemme kno, two people do look over this but we are human and can overlook things no matter how many times we read a chapter!)</p><p><a href="https://twitter.com/mutsukx">twitter</a> // <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1i5dOq5DsBVOUJVj21jKgM?si=g7xuPXsmS7q_XWOy37LQ7w">fic playlist</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. the writer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tetsurou couldn’t chase after ghosts, no matter how tempting they were. A mystery left unsolved had not prevented him from moving on, and the grief he felt at sixteen years old—while leaving their mark—had not left him unable to deal with reality.</p>
<p>Sometimes, things were better off in the shadows.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OJkI9AZ3h68">chapter title</a><br/>is from a song of the same name, by sleeping at last. </p>
<p>hello, and welcome back to chapter 2. i dont have much to say except i reread this to make sure it flowed smoothly and remember exactly where i struggled and had to ask friends for help lol. </p>
<p>there are NO additional tags to be added to this chapter, but if you find smth that you think should be tagged as a warning, lemme know~</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s not like Tetsurou had tried to forget about what he dubs the Kenma Incident. Just that, between Wakatoshi’s bi-monthly office meeting going south moments after it began, the fact that Tetsurou had to almost threaten an author to turn in their manuscript by the deadline, and getting around to reorganizing his apartment…well, Tetsurou simply just didn’t have time to think about a stripper who <em>maybe </em>was his best friend that went missing sixteen years ago.</p>
<p>Thankfully, Koutarou made good on his promise—even bringing Keiji along—to help him rearrange the apartment his <em>current </em>best friend used to occupy with him. After a day’s work, and a night of drinking on the couch watching the same shitty movies they did in their undergrad, Tetsurou’s apartment looked less like a glorified college dorm and more like the bachelor pad it had been for months.</p>
<p>However, as Tetsurou bids his coworkers farewell for the evening, the memory of talking to that bulky guard from several weeks back does resurface. As he goes through his nightly routine, Tetsurou debates on if he should <em>actually </em>go back to the club. Two weeks is a long time, but even more sobering is the thought that Tetsurou had lasted sixteen <em>years </em>without Kenma. Anything could have happened in that time, and the fact that they hadn’t found each other at any other crossroad in this city—the same city they grew up in—was a telling sign that maybe, just <em>maybe</em>, Tetsurou should let dead things lie.</p>
<p>And yet.</p>
<p>And <em>yet</em>.</p>
<p>He finds himself at the club the next afternoon, hands shoved in his jacket pockets to stave off the cold spring air. Luckily for him, it’s the same guard he spoke to the last night he had snuck behind the building, and Tetsurou offers a wave to catch the guard’s attention.</p>
<p>The guard’s gaze flicks over to him, the stare running up and down his body before he speaks. “Tetsurou Kuroo.”</p>
<p>“Oh! You remembered me.” Though relieved, Tetsurou still hovers on the other side of the alley. “I was just wondering…did you manage to speak with Kenma?”</p>
<p>“I spoke to the worker you described,” the guard replies, neither confirming nor denying if the worker in question was his <em> Kenma</em>. Worker protection, Tetsurou guesses, though the lack of information is irritating. “He did not wish to speak to you at that time.”</p>
<p>It’s not a shock to Tetsurou, who would have probably reacted in a similar manner had their roles been reversed. Maybe Kenma really did want nothing to do with his past life. Or he could be embarrassed as to where he ended up all these years later, although Tetsurou would not judge him for such a profession. And if on the large chance that the stripper he saw was <em>not </em> Kenma, then declining the offer to see some random man would make sense. “I understand,” Tetsurou says with a small smile, removing a hand from his jacket to readjust his laptop bag.</p>
<p>“However.” A frown appears on the guard’s face, disappearing just as quickly as it came. “He has been asking each night if you have shown up.” He stares at Tetsurou, unblinkingly as the man in question freezes in place.</p>
<p>Asking? Asking about him? Wondering if Tetsurou had shown up, asking the guards every night—for <em>two weeks </em>—if Tetsurou had appeared?</p>
<p>It had to have been. It had to be Kenma.</p>
<p>There was no other way, was there?</p>
<p>“Would you like to relay a message to him?” the guard inquires, breaking Tetsurou’s mess of frantic thoughts.</p>
<p>A message, huh? “Sure.” Tetsurou stands straighter and takes a deep breath in hopes that his voice does not waver. “If…if the dancer is Kenma, he would have recognized my name. Tell him that if he knows who I am, he can usually find me at A Loutte, on the northside of Central Park. If not, there’s a barista there by the name of Tobio who can take a message for me.”</p>
<p>“Is that all?” the guard questions, as if he had been expecting Tetsurou to say something else entirely.</p>
<p>Tetsurou affirms this with a nod. “That’s all. If the dancer is not Kenma, I’m not trying to scare him or nothing. I just wanted to reconnect with an old friend if he’s willing to talk to me.” At this he gives a small smile. “Thank you, for your help. I’ll be going now, so have a good day!” The guard grunts in confirmation, nodding at Tetsurou as he turns away to make his way back down the alleyway </p>
<p>Later, after answering a text from Koutarou about <em>yes </em>today he works his ‘author job’, Tetsurou will applaud himself for not looking back as he left the club. Later, as Tetsurou scans his metro card to travel the few stops to Cafe A Loutte, he will say he was content with his efforts in trying his best to reconnect with someone he had once called his friend. See, at this point in his life—a thirty-two-year-old with a prolific career as an author and a side job as an editor—he rarely had time for things that were outside the norm. For all Tetsurou knew, the man he saw at the club one night two weeks ago was just a pole dancer who looked similar <em>enough </em>to Kenma to drag up unwanted memories of sixteen years past.</p>
<p>And, well? Tetsurou couldn’t chase after ghosts, no matter how tempting they were. It’s sobering—Tetsurou realized as he departed the subway system—to know that Kenma or no Kenma, Tetsurou isn’t in high school anymore. A mystery left unsolved had not prevented him from moving on, and the grief he felt at sixteen years old—while leaving their mark—had not left him unable to deal with reality.</p>
<p>Sometimes, things were better off in the shadows.</p>
<p>Although.</p>
<p>“Good afternoon, Tobio!” Tetsurou calls into the café as he walks through the front doors. “What a beautiful afternoon it is to see your grumpy face!” From the front counter, a black-haired barista glares at him, frown clear on his face even from where Tetsurou was across the café.</p>
<p>Cafe A Loutte, commonly known as A Loutte was a locally-owned shop run by students from Tetsurou’s alum university. Since it was mostly a pit stop for tired office workers and even more haggard university students, Tetsurou usually found the place quiet enough to get his work done.</p>
<p>Although…</p>
<p>“Shut up,” Tobio snaps at him, a textbook half hidden against the register. “What if it was Hitoka? Calling her grumpy would hurt her feelings, you know.”</p>
<p>Upon reaching the front counter, Tetsurou leans against it, digging out his wallet. “The aura that radiates from this place is different when the angelic Hitoka works here,” he says absentmindedly. “When you’re on shift, this place emanates <em> misery</em>.”</p>
<p>As Tobio grinds out something probably scathing to an unassuming person, Tetsurou takes out a twenty-dollar bill and waves it in front of his favorite barista’s face. “Now, now, Tobio. Is this any way to talk to the man who raised you?” he jokes as the barista takes his cash, offering Tetsurou no change. “Please add an extra shot to my usual, lots of emails for such a busy man.”</p>
<p>Unable to ever let Tetsurou have the last word, Tobio mutters out some expletives under his breath as he stalks off to make Tetsurou’s drink. Content to let Tobio believe he’s won whatever battle the barista makes up in his pretty little head, Tetsurou heads to his preferred stool at the bar top nearer to the register. The spot allowed him to antagonize Tobio when he wished for a break between emails, but as the bar was situated against a wall, Tetsurou rarely got distracted by the other patrons of the café.</p>
<p>When Tetsurou’s drink is placed near the corner of his workspace—a lesson learned for Tobio <em>and </em> Tetsurou the one-time Tobio startled him and knocked the drink over a few rather important documents—Tetsurou looks up to find Tobio hovering uselessly at his side.</p>
<p>“Yes, Tobio?” Tetsurou questions. “Can I help you with something, or did you just miss my handsome face since the last time we spoke?”</p>
<p>Immediately there is a scowl on Tobio’s face, and he takes a step away from Tetsurou. Tetsurou watches as the younger man glances back at the counter for a moment as if wondering if his question was worth it to deal with Tetsurou’s unique charms.</p>
<p>“How,” Tobio begins, then stops. In Tetsurou’s opinion, he looks a bit constipated, but there were many moments where Tobio had a similar expression on his face. Tetsurou has already beaten that joke to the ground, and so holds his tongue to let Tobio continue. “How did you make it? With grad school and work and writing that novel of yours?”</p>
<p>Ah, Tetsurou thinks, that is a question, is it not? How <em>did </em>he make it through those last years of graduate school? He remembers the stress well, piled on top of working at this café—back then a full-time employee just to make ends meet. At the same time he had been at the midpoint of his first novel, both an exciting moment but also full of the uncertainty that maybe being a published author was going to be a dream he was shut out of before he got his foot even <em>near </em>the doorway.</p>
<p>Tetsurou contemplates his answer, reaching for his iced chai with two—two!—shots of espresso. At the first sip, he notices that Tobio had added extra chai to offset the strong espresso taste that Tetsurou had commented he wasn’t fond of. “It was a lot,” he says at last. “I had help, of course. I didn’t live alone like you did, and I never had an internship. But…” Tetsurou looks over at Tobio, remembering when the student was a little shorter and a lot lankier. It brings a small smile to his face. “Just ask for help. Ask Kiyoko, or even Hitoka. Talk to your professors if you have to, you have a support system.”</p>
<p>Tobio nods a few times, his scowl having softened into something less intense. Tetsurou refrains from telling Tobio to smile more often, not wishing to get his favorite customer card revoked for being more of an asshole than he usually was. “Thank you.” The words are mumbled yet heartfelt.</p>
<p>Nothing else is said between them after that. Tobio goes back to his spot behind the counter, textbook propped up by the register, and Tetsurou returns to his emails.</p>
<p><em> Although </em>…</p>
<p>Tetsurou gives up three minutes into viewing his emails, opting to poke at the old wounds that Kenma had left on him sixteen years ago.</p>
<p>He’s not sure what he is going to do if Kenma <em>is </em>the stripper he had seen two weeks ago. There’s a part of him that wishes to reconnect with the boy in his memories—small and afraid but so determined to get out <em>alive </em>—but Tetsurou knows there is a possibility that doing so will cause more harm than good. Even if they meet up, Tetsurou has no illusions about them restarting their friendship. If all he got was one coffee shop meet up filled with lackluster conversation that left him with more questions than answers, he would accept it. Regardless of the outcome of both his and Kenma’s decisions, Tetsurou was going to have to learn to live with the mystery with or without Kenma in his life.</p>
<p>Content with his silent decision and knowing prodding any deeper would only send him in circles, Tetsurou focuses his attention on the reality in front of him—emails. And honestly, having not only a small team of editors under him at the publishing firm <em>but also </em>having a team that deals with his work as an author, Tetsurou really thought he would be free from this whole <em>email </em>business. Apparently, he was naïve in that idea four years ago.</p>
<p>Tetsurou only notices the time pass through the momentary glances he takes at the clock. With a constant influx of both incoming and outgoing emails, he pays no attention to the background noise in the café. In fact, he only notices Tobio has left for the day when the barista on duty fails to add extra chai to his drink. A simple mistake, one Tetsurou doesn’t berate the young female for, as the request was not often.</p>
<p>It happens as he hits send on a strongly worded email that was more threatening than businesslike to an author who had ignored not only the deadline <em>they </em>had set, but the extension that was granted. It happens as Tetsurou opens a blank email to request—or beg—Wakatoshi to take this author off his hands before Tetsurou was charged with murder.</p>
<p>It goes like this:</p>
<p>“Tobio?” Tetsurou overhears. “I’m sorry, he’s left for the day, but how can I assist you?” It’s clear the barista is confused, but Tetsurou pays them no mind. Seriously, Wakatoshi was going to have to send an editor to collect this author’s manuscript if he tried to shirk their duties again, and Tetsurou refused to be that editor. Manslaughter was not a good charge on his record.</p>
<p>It goes like this.</p>
<p>“Leave a message? Why, he’s right over there!”</p>
<p>Though curious, Tetsurou opts to continue to ignore the situation as he starts to formulate an email to yet <em>another </em>local morning news station that wishes to host him for a live television interview.</p>
<p>Yeah, Tetsurou respectfully declines that one.</p>
<p>“Sir, the patron you're looking for is right over there?”</p>
<p>It goes like this: Tetsurou finally gives in to the curiosity, looking over his shoulder to see what the commotion during the late-afternoon hour could <em>possibly </em>be.</p>
<p>Only.</p>
<p>Tetsurou finds golden eyes staring at him and he <em>swears </em>the fear reflects his own. The barista motions towards Tetsurou, the smile on her face happily unaware of the tension between the two men in front of her. “See! He’s right there, you can talk to him yourself!”</p>
<p>It goes.</p>
<p>Tetsurou stares at the figure in front of him, hoodie-clad with jeans, and wishes he had more time to prepare. He stares at the man with hair longer than the last time Tetsurou had seen him. Blonder than the barely decent bleach job they had done together barely four months before Tetsurou never saw his best friend again.</p>
<p>Like this.</p>
<p>He stares at Kenma—an older, taller, more haggard version—until his neck hurts from the position. In the end, it is Tetsurou who breaks their staring contest, making a vague gesture to the empty stools next to him. “You can sit.”</p>
<p>It’s a comment that seems to ease whatever tension had erupted the moment Tetsurou had turned around. Kenma tenses for a split second before nodding and Tetsurou gets to watch—just as enraptured as he was two weeks ago—as the man’s lithe body closes the distances between them. Turning back to face his laptop, Tetsurou sees Kenma gingerly sit on the stool, both feet firmly planted to the ground.</p>
<p>As if ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Honestly, Tetsurou doesn’t blame him. If running out of the café wouldn’t cause a scene and he had the chance to pack up his laptop prior to noticing Kenma, he would have already been gone.</p>
<p>When he told the guard that Kenma could find him here most days, he didn’t expect to see him <em>that same day</em>.</p>
<p>“It’s nice to see you again,” he starts off, turning in his chair so he could face Kenma better. “’S been a while, huh?”</p>
<p>Slim fingers tap tunelessly on the wooden tabletop, pausing momentarily as Kenma looks up at him before he slides his gaze away to stare at the wall. “You too.” The words are almost too soft to hear even over the gentle background noise of the café. Tetsurou watches as Kenma’s shoulders hunch into themselves before the man seems to remember himself, forcing his shoulders back and spine straight.</p>
<p>Behind them, Tetsurou can hear a customer order their drink. Kenma’s shoulders curl in once more and the tapping resumes.</p>
<p>The two of them sit in silence for a time, broken only by the incessant tapping against the table. “You…you wanted to talk to me?” Tetsurou hedges. He would rather Kenma just <em>leave </em>if all he was going to do was sit there. While rather happy to see an old friend again, he had little time to be engaging in matters that were unrelated to work.</p>
<p>His question prompts Kenma to look at him again, holding his gaze for a second longer then what Tetsurou would deem <em>normal</em>. “No,” Kenma says plainly. For a blissful second, the tapping stops. “I did not wish to see you.”  </p>
<p>It’s not a shocking admission, Tetsurou notes. But he won’t lie to himself and say that he isn’t the least bit offended, he does understand <em>where </em> Kenma is coming from. For Tetsurou, both Kenma’s disappearance and the events that preceded the event years prior weighed heavily on his mind up until Tetsurou graduated with his undergrad. And even then, there were days where he would sit and wonder if Kenma was okay, upset that he couldn’t do <em>more </em>back then. Days where he felt anger at his childhood best friend leaving him even though Tetsurou promised that he would help, that Tetsurou would take care of him.</p>
<p>But Kenma never let him see that promise to fulfillment.</p>
<p>And if this many years later, Tetsurou still gets caught up in the emotions from an event that didn’t <em>happen </em>to him, he can only imagine the emotional torment that Kenma has worked through all these years.</p>
<p>Torment that he still might <em>be </em>working through. Issues that Tetsurou could be bringing to the forefront of his mind just by sitting here.</p>
<p>“But…” Kenma gives a heavy sigh, body sagging with the exhalation. He slides his hands into his lap and Tetsurou notices the way Kenma’s cuticles are bitten raw. “You’re here, so…hello.”</p>
<p>Tetsurou snorts, letting his lips quick up into a small, amused grin. “Hey.” He replies. “How’ve you been?”</p>
<p>“Decent, considering I’m an exotic dancer,” Kenma says bluntly, “the money is good.” For a moment, Kenma looks as if he wants to add something else, but Tetsurou watches Kenma press his lips together until there is nothing more than a thin line.</p>
<p>Tetsurou doesn’t dare to push the matter.</p>
<p>Unsure of what else to say, Tetsurou begins to rack his brain for something—<em> anything </em>—to say.</p>
<p>“Ah,” Kenma snaps his fingers, his phone in his free hand. “I have to go.”</p>
<p>Tetsurou tenses, a motion aborted to reach over and stop Kenma from leaving. The sudden stop of movement has him on the edge of his seat, and Kenma looks three seconds from bolting out the door without another word. “Please,” Tetsurou can’t help but let fall from his lips, “don’t go.” It sounds desperate, even to Tetsurou’s ears.</p>
<p>Kenma’s expression doesn’t change, only staring at Tetsurou in the same dismissive manner Tetsurou might stare at a bug on the ground. “I have work.”</p>
<p>“Okay.” Tetsurou resituates himself on his chair, forcing his body to relax. “Okay, will I see you again?”</p>
<p>And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? Only hours ago he had solidified his resolve that seeing Kenma again might only be a passing moment in their adult lives. That the mystery of Kenma’s disappearance might never be solved. Kenma himself might never be a fixture in Tetsurou’s life.</p>
<p>He had told himself that there were some things better left in the past.</p>
<p>But that was before seeing Kenma. Before seeing the changed mannerisms and the ones that have managed to stay the same. Kenma in the present was somehow entirely <em>new </em>to Tetsurou, yet familiar enough to bring the unwanted memories from so many years ago.</p>
<p>And for some reason, he wasn’t ready to let it go.</p>
<p>Judging by the way Kenma pauses as he rises from his seat, similar thoughts must be running through his mind. “That is not the best idea.” Kenma seems to speak the words to himself except for the fact that his gaze rises from his phone to meet Tetsurou one last time. “But we may meet again.”</p>
<p>Not even ten seconds later, Tetsurou is left alone at the bar top.</p>
<hr/>
<p>And he does run into Kenma again. It’s almost a bit of a routine.</p>
<p>It’s almost soothing, in an odd way, the first few times Tetsurou runs into Kenma again. They don’t always talk; sometimes Kenma sits at a different table and only offers Tetsurou a small nod as their eyes meet. Other times Tetsurou is on his way out of the café for a meeting when Kenma is on his way in.</p>
<p>But.</p>
<p>It’s nice.</p>
<p>However, the meetings where the two of them are able to sit together—either at Tetsurou’s normal spot at the bar, or at a table of Kenma’s choosing—are far and few in between. It is <em>this </em>that Tetsurou finds an issue in, the way that Kenma has snuck into his life so seamlessly, yet he remains so far away. Aggravating, in a way that Tetsurou had never dealt with before; Kenma was close enough to see, sometimes close enough to even <em>touch</em>, but it was never enough to feel reconnected. Never enough for Tetsurou to ask <em>how have you been, really</em>. Never a question about Kenma’s life outside of work, never an answer as to where he had been in the last sixteen years.</p>
<p>As the season changes, Tetsurou changes his seat from the bar to a table near the window, watching as the chilled air rustles the dying leaves from their trees. It is here that Kenma finds him, folding himself into the chair across from Tetsurou in such a graceful manner that might make one mistake Kenma for royalty.</p>
<p>Neither of them speaks for a time, content to watch those who pass by, absorbed in their own lives. Absorbed in a life much simpler than this, Tetsurou hopes. The silence, as peaceful as it was, is shattered when Tobio brings their drinks to the table.</p>
<p>“One coffee, no cream, extra sugar?” Tobio’s low voice sounds from behind Tetsurou. Kenma perks up, turning to glance up at the barista.</p>
<p>“Me, thank you.” Kenma accepts his mug with both hands and sips at the dark liquid with a barely noticeable twitch of his lips.</p>
<p>“And one iced chai double shot.” Tobio places Tetsurou’s drink next to him, the liquid inside almost sloshing over with the violent movement.</p>
<p>“Ah, thank you Tobio.” Tetsurou casts a glance as his drink before flicking his stare up to the younger barista. “Did you spit in it this time?”</p>
<p>Tobio’s face twists into something that Tetsurou would describe as <em>disgust</em>, but the line of his mouth seems more akin to <em>amusement</em>. “Yes.” Tobio bites out, holding Tetsurou’s stare. “Extra potassium.”</p>
<p>Tetsurou blinks once, brow scrunching together as he gives a second thought to the words that had just come from Tobio’s mouth. “Don’t you mean protein?” At the barista’s aghast expression, Tetsurou snorts out a laugh, lips thinning to stop himself from fully losing it. “Tobio! Tobio ain’t you in graduate school for <em>medicine</em>? How do you not— how did you not know—”</p>
<p>Tobio’s face is a worrying shade of red, and if Tetsurou was a better person he would at least <em>think </em>about not teasing Tobio so much. But Tetsurou is not a better person and does not plan on ever ceasing this endless banter that he and Tobio have had over the years. </p>
<p>“It’s sports medicine, <em>not </em> med school.” There’s venom in those words, the barista’s eyes dark in anger. Of course, Tetsurou only smiles cheekily, making a show out of taking the first sip of his chai.</p>
<p>Perfect, as always. From the corner of Tetsurou’s eye, he can see Kenma glancing between the two of them, eyes wide.</p>
<p>“Hm, extra protein or not, it’s very good. Thank you, Tobio.” Tetsurou gives another laugh when Tobio forgoes a reply in favor of turning on his heel and stalking away. </p>
<p>It is only when the barista leaves that Kenma picks up his coffee, a frown on his face that Tetsurou notices right before the other covers it with his mug. “You two seem close,” Kenma comments, gaze flicking from Tetsurou to the view outside.</p>
<p>Unsure how Kenma meant his words, Tetsurou only hums around his pumpkin spiced chai—perfect for the start of the fall season. “I’ve been coming here since college,” is all he says in reply.</p>
<p>The comment seems to immediately perk Kenma’s interest, as he sits up straighter in his chair. “College?” he asks, a touch of pink staining his cheeks when he realizes the curiosity that paints his words. Kenma quickly looks away, hiding his blush behind his coffee mug. “You went to college around here?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, a while ago of course,” Tetsurou shares with a soft laugh. It’s cute, a shadow of the Kenma in his memories, but Tetsurou doesn’t comment on the blush on the other’s cheeks. “I actually used to work here. That grumpy barista? Trained him when he was just a baby freshman.” Tetsurou chances a glance over at the front counter, watching for a moment as Tobio interacts with a customer. “They grow up so fast.”</p>
<p>When his attention focuses back on Kenma, he finds himself being watched, those golden eyes fixated on Tetsurou’s face—looking for something Tetsurou did not know. He watches as Kenma bites his lip, tearing at the skin until a smear of blood is left on the surface. Watches stained lips part before closing again.</p>
<p>Tetsurou manages to tear his gaze away, busying himself with his flavored chai as the two of them descend into silence once more.</p>
<p>Except.</p>
<p>Tetsurou hates this silence, loaded with unasked questions. It weighs heavy on his shoulders, words sitting on his tongue just begging to be spoken as they press against the closed seam of his lips.</p>
<p>Except. He knows Kenma, <em> knew </em> Kenma. Knew the hopes and dreams that a fourteen-year-old boy once had. Can guess that those dreams never came to fruition if he was sitting across from Tetsurou, a pole dancer in a club at thirty-years-old.</p>
<p><em> Except</em>. “I can talk about it if you want me to?” Tetsurou can give him this, stories about a life Kenma was not apart of, a life that Kenma could have seen, could have <em>lived </em>if only he let Tetsurou help him—</p>
<p>“About?” Kenma’s soft voice shatters Tetsurou’s thoughts. “Oh, college?” There it is again, Tetsurou notes, fingers itching for a moment to write out the way pale skin flushes pink. “I wouldn’t mind if you don’t mind sharing.”</p>
<p>Tetsurou’s reply is cut off by the short chime of his cell phone. He quickly picks up the device, voicing an apology as he messages back his manager with a simple, <em> I’m busy</em>. “Sorry, what did you want to know?”</p>
<p>This time, Kenma’s voice comes out clear, “Anything.”</p>
<p>And well, who is Tetsurou to deny an old friend something so simple like a college story? “Well, okay.” The question was <em>what </em>kind of college story should he tell Kenma? Something that detailed how hard his undergrad was, or—wait. “One time, during my junior year of undergrad, my roommate and I got drunk in his boyfriend’s dorm.”</p>
<p>Tetsurou notices the way Kenma fidgets in his seat, the chair squeaking across the tiled floor of the café as Kenma scoots closer. Similar to the grace he held while sitting down, Tetsurou can only think about the regal way Kenma rests his elbow on the table, hooking his thumb under his chin as it rests on his palm. “I would enjoy hearing more.”</p>
<p>Tetsurou had never called himself a particularly <em>strong </em>man, but there was something about Kenma’s stare that, well… made him wonder if he was just a bit weaker than previously thought.</p>
<p>“Well, his dorm was on the seventh floor, right? So we got drunk, and I honestly cannot remember why I was out on the balcony, but I remember that I had this really bright idea that I could <em>fly </em>.” Tetsurou doesn’t miss the aborted laugh that Kenma covers up with delicate fingers. “I know, stupid, right? Anyway, Koutarou—my roommate—was nowhere to be found at the time, so his boyfriend was the one who had the wonderful tasks of trying to get me off the fucking balcony ledge.” Tetsurou gives a laugh of his own, recalling the way he had teetered unsteadily while Keiji had yelled at him from not even a foot away.</p>
<p>“Did you do it? Did you jump?” Kenma asks, coffee halfway to his mouth. He pauses for a brief second before taking a sip, and Tetsurou notices the way the mug shakes ever so slightly in Kenma’s grip.</p>
<p>Tetsurou gives another laugh at that, motioning vaguely to himself. “Of course not. I think I would have died, honestly. As soon as Keiji, my roommate’s boyfriend, saw me on the railing, he started yelling at me that I was a <em> cat </em>and could not fly. Me, being drunk, thought that telling him cats have nine lives would work in my favor, but.” Tetsurou lets the sentence hang, index finger tracing the condensation forming on his glass.</p>
<p>Kenma parts his lips, the question halfway out his mouth before Tetsurou’s phone once again goes off, this time lighting up for an incoming call.</p>
<p>Tetsurou looks between his manager’s name on his phone to the crestfallen expression that Kenma tries to hide with his coffee mug. He’s tempted to dismiss the call, tempted to sit here, and tell Kenma story after story until the frown on those lips vanishes but, that wasn’t how his life worked.</p>
<p>“It's okay,” Kenma says, eyes trained on Tetsurou’s finger that hovered over the decline button. Between them, the ringtone loops itself. “I have to leave now anyway.”</p>
<p>Tetsurou can only accept the call as he watches Kenma stagger, catching himself on the back of the chair. “Thank you,” Kenma says.</p>
<p>Unable to say a word in reply, Tetsurou turns his attention to the voice on the other line as he watches Kenma walk out the door without a backward glance.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>so if i post the text in rich text it adds extra spaces to where all my italics are, but if i do it in html i have to add the italic tag...both of these suck, esp since i use italics so much :,)</p>
<p>chapter 3 comes out on August 19th~</p>
<p><a href="https://twitter.com/mutsukx">twitter</a> // <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1i5dOq5DsBVOUJVj21jKgM?si=g7xuPXsmS7q_XWOy37LQ7w">fic playlist</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. ghosting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Life goes on, he knows this better than anyone. Life goes on, and the ache that he feels now will not be the same ache he feels tomorrow, or even in a few months.</p><p>It would mean nothing someday, these meetings with Kenma. Just a smear against the otherwise decent life Tetsurou had built for himself.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i totally forgot i was supposed to post today until my phone let out an alarm this morning that i was supposed to upload a chapter. yes, expect that to be the norm i am forgetful af. </p><p>Also this was supposed to be the day i posted chapter 1 (lol), but also its Haikyuu day!! Happy Haikyuu day from the usa, i kno the international date now is the 20th, but lemme live. </p><p>Warnings: drinking wine, kuroo having Doubts and Fears(which is a general theme of this entire fic it doesnt get better)</p><p>chapter title taken from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UH-fI8x4-Ps">ghosting</a><br/>by mother mother</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Before Tetsurou can make time to go back to the café—for work or in hopes of seeing Kenma once more—the Thanksgiving holiday sneaks up on him. If he thinks about it, Tetsurou figures that not seeing Kenma is for the better. They weren’t friends; just two people who came together based on a mutual past and a desire to rekindle a familiarity that had been destroyed decades ago. But, not friends. Not family, not in Tetsurou’s books, no matter how much he wishes it so.</p><p>The holidays were for friends and family, a bond broken between the two of them. And, Tetsurou knows that Kenma spoke to no one from back home. Although he is not one to judge, as the second he left the suburbs to attend college in the city he cut ties with everyone back home.</p><p>A home back then was where Kenma was; without Kenma, Tetsurou had no one.</p><p>No one until Koutarou. Until Keiji.</p><p>Tetsurou can remember their first Thanksgiving together fondly, burning turkey in the dorm’s kitchen and barely edible green bean casserole. The way the three of them ended up only with the mashed potatoes Keiji had made and canned cranberry jelly, sitting in Tetsurou and Koutarou’s dorm in oversized sweaters while outdated pop songs played from Keiji’s laptop.</p><p>He had never asked, back then, why Koutarou and Keiji stayed with him that year. Tetsurou can still remember overhearing a conversation between Koutarou and his family half begging for his friend to come home for the holidays, half scolding him that staying behind for a <em> friend </em>was selfish. Tetsurou never let on that he knew the ire his best friend faced staying back in their junior year, and all years following, but he was forever thankful.</p><p>Thankfully, such a time was twelve years ago. The three of them were no longer adults who could barely cook their own meals, no longer burnt the turkey, or used canned green beans for casserole. They got older, as time tends to do to people, and they got wiser.</p><p>“I have arrived!” Tetsurou proclaims as he makes his way into Keiji and Koutarou’s new apartment. The smell of a fresh coat of paint still lingers in the living room, and the sofa has a suspicious lack of stains on the cushions. “I come bearing gifts!”</p><p>“In the kitchen,” Koutarou shouts back, a yelp following the sound of a wet smack. “Did you bring wine, please tell me you brought wine!” Koutarou’s voice sounds on the edge of hysterics, though Tetsurou ignores his best friend in favor of toeing off his shoes. “Tetsurou!” Koutarou calls again, “please! I can only hold Keiji off with kisses for so long!”</p><p>At this Tetsurou concedes to his friend’s whining and makes his way to the kitchen. There he finds Koutarou cowering against the kitchen counter as Keiji threateningly points a knife at his boyfriend before going back to chopping still steaming potatoes.</p><p>“Um…” The scene would be normal if it were not for the fact that both Koutarou and Keiji are covered head to toe in flour, little piles of white sprinkled around the rest of the kitchen. Tetsurou even spies a decent pile of flour near the sink. “I bring wine?”</p><p>A second of tense silence follows Tetsurou’s words.</p><p>The sound of a knife hitting granite is the only noise made before Keiji takes the bottle of wine from Tetsurou’s hand. He holds the bottle close to him, tossing a glare over at Koutarou before Keiji starts to rummage around a drawer for the bottle opener.</p><p>“Thank you,” Keiji belatedly says, likely noticing that Tetsurou was still hovering in the entryway to the kitchen, porcelain container balanced in his hands. “I left the oven on for your sweet potatoes, you can put them in whenever Koutarou gets out of the way.”</p><p>With a laugh, Tetsurou switches spots with Koutarou, ignoring both the pop of the wine bottle and the fake gag that his best friend makes at the sight of the sweet potatoes going into the oven.</p><p>“Do you have a problem, Koutarou?” Keiji asks coolly. With the oven door closed, Tetsurou looks over to see Keiji drinking wine straight from the bottle.</p><p>Damn, he’s lucky that he brought another bottle just in case.</p><p>“That’s hot,” Tetsurou comments, watching Keiji smile at him before taking another sip.</p><p>“I don’t have a <em> problem</em>, Keiji!” Koutarou moves to take the wine glass from his boyfriend but stops when Keiji levels him with another glare. Tetsurou thins his lips to prevent laughter from slipping out. “I just think it’s gross! Sweet potatoes are gross, and both of you are gross for liking them.”</p><p>Sometimes, Keiji crosses the line between just being attractive to <em>hot</em>, a thought that was not new in Tetsurou’s mind, but it was always a bit of a treat to see Keiji assert his dominance.</p><p>“You know,” Keiji starts, letting Tetsurou take the wine bottle from his loose grip. The wine is already halfway gone, but Tetsurou takes a drink from it before handing it back to Keiji with a grin. “You don’t have to date me, Koutarou. Tetsurou and I can live a wonderful life without you, filled with sweet potatoes.”</p><p>Tetsurou slides closer to Keiji to wrap an arm around his waist. He presses a kiss to the corner of wine-stained lips, a laugh bubbling from between Tetsurou’s mouth as he leans back. “Yeah Koutarou,” he teases, staring at his friend who had hopped up onto a flour dirtied counter. Tetsurou mourns the state of his pants. “Keiji and I would eat sweet potatoes every day—breakfast, lunch, <em> and </em>dinner. Plus, sweet potato themed sex? Keiji, I would eat one of those bad boys right out—”</p><p>With a shout, Keiji turns in Tetsurou’s arms to press a hand against his mouth. “Please, stop talking now,” he says, mouth set in a scowl. “You are just as disgusting as Koutarou.”</p><p>“But I’m the <em> most </em> disgustingest, right Keiji?” Koutarou proclaims. Keiji only sighs, shoulders sagging with the movement before he hands Tetsurou the almost empty wine bottle and walks out of the kitchen.</p><p>Tetsurou watches him leave before turning to Koutarou, who hops off the counter to toss the cut potatoes into a deep pot. “What did you do to him, Kou? He looked about ready to stab you with that knife.”</p><p>“Hm.” Koutarou sticks out his arm, and Tetsurou hands the wine bottle over without comment. “Oh, we had a flour war. He lost! He’s mad because now he has to clean it up!” The two of them laugh for a moment, Tetsurou leaning against a rather clean piece of countertop while Koutarou mashes the potatoes in Keiji’s absence.</p><p>Unsurprisingly, despite polishing off Tetsurou’s first bottle of wine and one from Keiji’s wine fridge before dinner was even finished, their meal comes out beautifully. Usually, Tetsurou and Keiji would come together to make a new dish together—last year they made homemade stuffing—but with Tetsurou going between interviews for his new novel release and Keiji dealing with an unusual amount of production delays, the two of them had decided to keep their dishes this year relatively simple. Just turkey, homemade cranberry sauce, Tetsurou’s sweet potato casserole, and an antipasto pasta salad.</p><p>And their third bottle of wine.</p><p>“We have forgotten to say what we are thankful for this year,” Keiji states halfway through their meal, taking a sip of wine from the wine glasses that Tetsurou had made them all drink from. “We should do that before continuing. Koutarou, if you would please start us off?”</p><p>“Sure!” Koutarou sets his silverware down, thinking for a moment before a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I’m thankful I get to sleep next to you every night, Keiji!”</p><p>Tetsurou doesn’t miss the way Keiji’s cheeks redden at the comment but says nothing. “Well,” he starts when Keiji’s stare lands on him, “I’m thankful that I don’t have to hear you two have sex in the room directly across from mine! That’s been nice.” Tetsurou raises his wine glass as Koutarou laughs next to him. “Your turn, Keiji.”</p><p>Keiji picks up his wine glass, tapping it against Tetsurou’s as a smile blooms across his face. “Wine,” he says simply. He polishes off his glass immediately afterward, smile still on his face as he reaches to refill the glass.</p><p>Tetsurou and Koutarou can only laugh harder, clinking their glasses together before following Keiji’s example.</p><p>And that, Tetsurou will say, is yet another successful Thanksgiving. </p>
<hr/><p>Tetsurou is only made aware of the impending holiday season when he finds the yearly tree already erected in the break room for their department. The sight makes him pause for a second, taking in the ornaments that hang from fake branches.</p><p>It hurts, for a moment, seeing the tree, but Tetsurou forces himself to turn around to make his morning coffee. Tries his best to pretend that the tree isn’t across the room, the star at the top barely skimming the ceiling. It’s with shaking hands that Tetsurou makes his coffee, eyes damp even as he tells himself that it’s <em>okay</em>.</p><p>But. He doesn’t think it’s okay. This was supposed to be his and Koutarou’s thing, a tradition they had brought over from their dorm days—their apartment days—when they realized it would be more fun decorating a tree for the whole department to see rather than the small one they could afford to fit inside of their college dorm.</p><p>It was <em>their </em>thing, something the two of them did every year. Together.</p><p>“Koutarou?” Tetsurou calls after a while, trying to keep his voice as even as possible.</p><p>He knows it would be stupid to cry, stupid of him to think that Koutarou did this out of maliciousness to break Tetsurou’s heart just a little more. But…but it <em>feels </em>like it.</p><p>Feels like he’s losing Koutarou.</p><p>“Yeah, bro! That’s me!” the man in question pokes his head into the break room. Tetsurou watches the grin vanish from his face, watches as Koutarou fully steps into the room, eyes <em>pitying</em>.</p><p>“You…” Tetsurou bites out between grit teeth. Anger is easier to feel, easier to express. Not hurt, not vulnerability. Not even to Koutarou. “You didn’t invite me?”</p><p>But it hurts.</p><p>Koutarou at least has the decency to look away from the pinched expression Tetsurou knows is on his face. “You were busy, so I asked Keiji.”</p><p>It feels like…</p><p>He’s losing Koutarou.</p><p>Piece by piece.</p><p>Later, Tetsurou will know that it was silly to get worked up over a tree. Later he will realize that it was the exhaustion from being run ragged between being an editor and being an author catching up to him.</p><p>But in the present, Tetsurou, at thirty-three years old, can only cry in the shared breakroom for the two department teams.</p><p>Because, in the present, it hurts.</p><p>“It was <em>our </em>thing, Koutarou,” Tetsurou manages to get out between hiccupping breaths.</p><p>Because, in the present, losing Koutarou is his biggest fear.</p><p>“You…you were <em> busy </em>.” Koutarou sounds panicked, which only makes Tetsurou more anxious. He knows he’s overreacting. It’s a tree. Luckily, Koutarou is his best friend for a reason and takes Tetsurou’s coffee from his hands so that Tetsurou can wipe at his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal.”</p><p>And really, Tetsurou thinks, that’s the kicker. Any other year, this wouldn’t have had as big of an impact. If this had happened next year, it likely would have caused an ache in his chest that he could simply brush away with a joke, with a hard slap on Koutarou’s back. But it didn’t happen last year, and it wasn’t next year. It’s now. The same now that had taken Koutarou away from him after fourteen years, the same now that has Tetsurou going home to an empty apartment.</p><p>And really, Tetsurou thinks, letting his best friend guide him into a chair, feeling the warmth of Koutarou’s body wrap around his own. And <em>really</em>, that’s all it is.</p><p>“I miss you,” Tetsurou pushes the words out of his heart, past his lips and into the world. “I just… miss <em> you </em>.”</p><p>Misses the late nights they spent on the couch after work, beers in hand as they talked about everything and nothing all at once. Tetsurou misses the ease that came with living with someone for fourteen years, misses the bickering they had over who bought groceries, or who’s turn it was to clean the bathroom.</p><p>But, most of all, Tetsurou misses the warmth of his best friend. The way Koutarou stood by his side seconds after meeting Tetsurou. If he thinks about it, Koutarou has been dating Keiji almost as long as the three of them have been friends, but it was always Koutarou who was adamant about staying with Tetsurou. Staying.</p><p>Never leaving.</p><p>Maybe that’s it.</p><p>“I’ll never leave you,” Koutarou says into the silence of the room. His hands feel warm against the back of Tetsurou’s neck. “Is this what has you so distant lately?” </p><p>It hurts to hear the same vulnerability in Koutarou’s voice that Tetsurou tries so hard to shove down, but… He knows it’s been a long time coming.</p><p>Tetsurou wiggles out of Koutarou’s grip, letting his friend’s hands slide from his neck to wrap around his forearms. “I wanted to decorate with you,” he confesses, though, really, is it a confession if they both knew about it? “It… it felt like that was the last thing we had together. You’ve moved out, you’ve moved on, in some way, from <em>me</em>. And—”</p><p>“You were busy,” Koutarou stresses again, grip tightening on Tetsurou’s arm. “You were busy, and looked so stressed and I wanted to do <em>one thing </em>for you. All you could talk about was interview <em>this </em>and interview <em>that</em>. And I know Wakatoshi hasn’t taken that author off your hands, I just…” Here, Koutarou deflates. “I didn’t think it would make you cry, I’m sorry.”</p><p>“S’okay.” Because really, what was he supposed to say to that? “I know you didn’t do it on purpose, I <em> know </em> that.” Tetsurou looks up from where his stare has been fixated on his fingers, meeting Koutarou’s worried stare. “You’re good to me, I know that.”</p><p>At this, Koutarou breaks into a grin, a short burst of laughter, “Of course I am! I’m your best friend.” He sobers up quickly, thumbing away some of the leftover tears that had lingered on Tetsurou’s face. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to help me, I should have. I just wanted you to have less on your plate…and, I miss you too.”</p><p>“Of course, you do. I’m your best friend.”</p><p>And, maybe things will never be the same again. Maybe Tetsurou will always miss Koutarou a little fiercer than he did the past fourteen years. But he thinks that will be okay.</p><p>It makes being his friend just a little more special.</p>
<hr/><p>There is something to be said about the way Kenma sits in front of Tetsurou and judging by the way Kenma stares back at him, a fire behind those golden eyes, Tetsurou realizes that <em>maybe </em>he should keep his mouth shut.</p><p>However. With two weeks until Christmas, the city had officially plummeted into the near-freezing days and even more frigid nights. Which is <em>why </em> Tetsurou sees a problem with the man in front of him. </p><p>Clad only in a dark grey hoodie that looks like it had seen better days, Kenma lounges across from Tetsuoru at their claimed window seat. From the window, the holiday lights that covered the city at the beginning of the month turn on one by one, casting a soft glow over the blackening snow on the sidewalk and deepening the shadows under Kenma’s eyes. </p><p>Unlike their previous encounter, months ago when Testsurou thinks about it, the Kenma in front of him does not sit regally in his seat, but slumps over as if he has no energy to hold a conversation, let alone get out of his seat.</p><p>Worrying.</p><p>If it were not for the stare that in a sense dares Tetsurou to speak on the topic, he likely would have opened his mouth to ask <em> What happened to you? </em></p><p>He wants to ask, almost feels like it’s a need, truly. A need to understand how Kenma could have gone from the soft-spoken but witty man that sat across from Tetsurou—the only telling sign of distress being the raw bitten nails and the slight shake of his hands. To… to <em>this </em>shell of a man with blood crusted around cuticles, with cheeks more sunken than Tetsurou has seen on dead bodies portrayed in television shows.</p><p>To the bones that seem to jump from his skin.</p><p>Tetsurou says nothing, for no other reason than—it’s none of his business. He could do nothing without Kenma telling him, without Kenma asking him for help.</p><p>He would not offer his assistance where it was not welcomed. Tetsurou had attempted that, sixteen years prior, and in the end, lost the one good thing he had called home.</p><p>“So,” Tetsurou starts, noticing how Kenma’s gaze slides away from him now that he figures Tetsurou will not comment on his appearance. “How did you get into the stripper business?”</p><p>“Exotic dancing,” Kenma corrects at once, his stare snapping back to Tetsurou’s. “Or pole dancing. Do not call us <em> strippers </em> .” At Tetsurou’s apology, Kenma relaxes back against the chair, running a hand through poorly dyed hair. “I lied, of course. No one was going to let some scrawny fourteen-year-old kid near a pole, let alone let them <em> perform </em>.” He laughs, but the sound settles heavily in Tetsurou’s chest.</p><p>The idea of a fourteen-year-old—no, a <em> child </em> —on the streets, helpless with no food and no shelter to turn to <em>exotic dancing</em>. It doesn’t sit right with Tetsurou. How could Kenma have left back then, knowing full well that doing so would result in cutting Tetsurou off as well?</p><p>How could Kenma have <em>left </em>him, and for what? Stripping in some seedy club at fourteen.</p><p>“Don’t pity me,” Kenma says, breaking Tetsurou from his thoughts. “I had a friend help me back then, they gave me food and shelter while I trained and got on my feet.”</p><p><em> But it wasn’t me</em>, Tetsurou wants to shout. Desperate to change the subject, he asks, “Do you still play video games?”</p><p>“No.” Kenma sets his iced coffee down, the sharp sound of glass hitting the table startling Tetsurou. He immediately realizes <em>he fucked up</em>. “I don’t play, not since—” Kenma stops suddenly, a distressed look passing over his face.</p><p>“Never mind,” Tetsurou interrupts before Kenma can continue. Although knowing that he could gain insight into what happened sixteen years ago, Tetsurou doesn’t want to force it out of Kenma before he’s ready. Not if the genuine fear in Kenma’s eyes, teeth biting at the skin around his nails was the price Tetsurou had to pay. “You don’t have—You don’t own me anything.”</p><p>Kenma nods once, pulling his hand away from his mouth to chew on the straw of his drink. Neither comments on the way the glass shudders violently in Kenma’s grip.</p><p>The conversation seems to die after that, the two of them awkwardly tapping away on their phone for a time, the silence broken only by the sudden slurp of Kenma’s drink as he finishes it off.</p><p>This time the glass, though still shaking, lands gentler on the table. Tetsurou notices the way Kenma taps twice on the table before he hears the other start talking.</p><p>“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says softly. As Tetsurou looks up from his phone, he catches the way Kenma runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry.”</p><p>Momentarily, he wonders what it would be like, to see his former friend healthy again.</p><p>“Upset me?” Tetsurou asks, locking his phone and placing it back on the table. “I feel like I should apologize to you. I…didn’t mean to drag up unwanted memories of the past. You have nothing to apologize for.”</p><p>“For disappearing, then,” Kenma adds.</p><p>The comment makes Tetsurou jolt in surprise, covering it up by taking a few sips of his drink to delay his response. “I’m glad you’ve been okay,” he says, at last, choosing his words carefully. “After the last time we met up, work has been a bit hectic, and I had no way of contacting you.” For his own health, Tetsurou refuses to think if Kenma had meant for his apology to be applied to his recent disappearance or the one from their childhood. “Just in case, though, you should take my phone number.”</p><p>It looks like Kenma thinks about declining the offer, in which Tetsurou wouldn’t press for him to take it, but Kenma leans over, still visibly shaking, to take the offered napkin Tetsurou had jotted his phone number on. Tetsurou notices that, despite the conflicted look on his face, Kenma holds the napkin carefully, as if afraid that one wrong move would tear the number inked on it.</p><p>“Thank you,” Kenma all but whispers, staring at Tetsurou for a moment before looking down at his phone. “I have to go now… but, thank you.”</p><p>And if Kenma stumbles out the door in only his grey hoodie, fingers still clinging to the napkin Tetsurou gave him only moments before, Tetsurou doesn’t notice.</p><p>He knows, <em> knows </em>he’s not supposed to care, not supposed to butt in where Kenma doesn’t want him. But it’s hard—if not impossible—not to offer Kenma his help. Not when his former friend looked like a walking skeleton, like he shouldn’t even be <em>near </em>a pole for dancing. It’s impossible not to try to be someone Kenma can turn to.</p><p>“That… looked depressing,” Tobio comments as he comes over to pick up Kenma’s empty glass. “Did you piss him off?”</p><p>“Ah, no.” Tetsurou holds out his glass as well, thanking Tobio when he takes it. “Just…actually I don’t know really.”</p>
<hr/><p>Tetsurou finds no time to make it back to the café before they shut down to allow their student workers to enjoy their holidays as they please. At least, were anything to happen, Kenma has Tetsurou’s number.</p><p>He knows he shouldn’t care, but Tetsurou’s already accepted that the matters of his mind and the matters of his heart do not always agree.</p><p>At least, this time, he knows Kenma <em>can </em>contact him, allowing him to go into the upcoming festivities with a lighter conscience.</p><p>Similar to Thanksgiving, Tetsurou spends Christmas with Koutarou and Keiji. However, when the three of them had started their jobs at the publishing firm, they had decided to open up their little family to the coworkers who had no one to return to during the Christmas season.</p><p>While parts of both Keiji and Morisuke’s team made plans to meet at Morisuke’s house outside the city to watch the ball drop, in the end, both teams get called in by Wakatoshi to come to work early New Year’s Day. Tetsurou understands, since Keiji had dealt with so many delays over the past few weeks, it was understandable that the teams had to come together to ensure that books went to print on time. Surprisingly, their boss enlisted the help of Lev to at least cater food to the department floor, letting them have their own New Year's celebration as they got to work. Despite the situation, Tetsurou enjoys the day; even Keiji doesn’t tell them to be quiet as they work for once in his life.</p><p>Nice, he would say, watching as Lev trips over a wayward cord and scatters the hundreds of pages of paper in his hand. He would go as far as to call it a pretty good day.</p><p>Except.</p><p>It comes at the tail end of the day, as Konoha is in the middle of smearing pumpkin pie across Koutarou’s cheek.</p><p>Except.</p><p>Tetsurou knew—</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> From: Unknown </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’ll come back. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He should have never let himself care in the first place. He should have never told himself that <em>this </em>time would be different, never should have let himself grow fond of Kenma even after telling himself day in and day out that he shouldn’t do such a thing.</p><p>Matters of the heart and matters of the mind did not always agree, but Tetsurou did not appreciate choosing the former only to find that the latter was correct. Sixteen <em>years </em>he waited.</p><p><em> I’ll come back</em>.</p><p>Tetsurou doubts it, scoffing as he shoves his cellphone back in his pocket. A pity, he notes, that such a simple text could ruin the first day of the year.</p><p>But life goes on, he knows this better than anyone. Life goes on, and the ache that he feels now will not be the same ache he feels tomorrow, or even in a few months.</p><p>It would mean nothing someday, these meetings with Kenma. Just a smear against the otherwise decent life Tetsurou had built for himself.</p><p>It would mean nothing.</p><p>Someday.</p><p>Today, however, was not that day.</p><p>“Dude!” Koutarou shouts from across the department floor a few days later, jolting Tetsurou from his thoughts. Seconds later, a paper smacks him in the head. “You’re gonna get grey hairs like <em> me </em> pretty soon with all that sighing!”</p><p>“Koutarou, please no shouting while on the clock,” Keiji reprimands as he walks out of the break room. Of course, as always, the admonishment falls on deaf ears.</p><p>“Gross!” the intern complains, after what sounds like a wet smack. “Keiji can you at least ban him from kissing you while on the clock too?”</p><p>Tetsurou looks up at this, catching the end of Keiji’s smirk before he schools it back to his normally impassive face. “Why would I do that?” he asks, winking at Lev when the intern wrinkles his nose.</p><p>Keiji turns, catching Tetsurou’s stare. Keiji holds it for a moment before offering Tetsurou a small smile, heading back to his desk without further comment.</p><p>“What are you doing?” Tetsurou deadpans as he walks up to his desk, shifting his manuscripts out of the way to sit on the desk. “Why.”</p><p>“Why?” Koutarou repeats, eyes narrowing. He picks Tetsurou’s phone up from where it sits next to his pen container, turning the device over in his hands. “Because you are <em> clearly </em> upset by whatever that blond friend from your past texted you.” He spits the words out, though he seems just as shocked as Tetsurou at the venom in his words.</p><p>No words pass between them, Tetsurou unable to reply to Koutarou’s heated words. He had spoken about Kenma prior to the message, sure. Tetsurou remembers telling both Keiji and Koutarou about finding Kenma once again. At the time, both had been supportive of Tetsurou’s actions to continue meeting with the man… but with Koutarou’s outburst, Tetsurou wonders if they had their own worries.</p><p>“I’m your best friend,” Koutarou says finally, voice pitched at an appropriate level for once. “Don’t hide things from me.” The words are punctuated with Koutarou’s foot landing in Tetsurou’s lap.</p><p>Smiling, Tetsurou pats his friend’s calf before removing the offending limb, sobering immediately after as he thinks his words through. “I fear,” he begins, tilting his head back to rest against the back of his chair, “I fear that it’s a repeat of sixteen years ago. At least there’s a note this time.” Tetsurou shrugs, unsure how to continue, unsure of what he’s feeling about the situation, to be honest.</p><p>Humming, Koutarou kicks his feet against Tetsurou’s desk drawers, the sound echoing in the relative silence of their workplace. Tetsurou spies Keiji look up from their work, a frown on his lips, yet he ultimately says nothing about the disturbance.</p><p>“That sucks,” Koutarou says, dropping Tetsurou’s phone back on the desk. He puts his hands flat behind him on the desk, leaning back as he tilts his head up to the ceiling. “But what can you do about it now? What could you have done about it, to begin with?”</p><p>Tetsurou thinks about it, recalling all of the meetings where Kenma had only wanted to ask Tetsurou about college, about his time working at the café they were currently sitting in. “Nothing,” he realizes, “even if I wanted to do something, he wouldn’t have let me.”</p><p>It’s a sobering thought, though Tetsurou sees the importance of realizing it. In the end, did he ever mean anything to Kenma?</p><p>“Then why worry yourself sick, hm?” Koutarou laughs, startling a coworker passing by. “If the problem isn’t anything <em>you </em>did, there is no reason for you to feel guilty. Or sad. Or whatever.” Hopping off Tetsurou’s desk—finally—Koutarou claps his hand hard on Tetsurou’s shoulder. “You did the best you could given the situation.”</p><p>Tetsurou disagrees, he could have pushed harder. Could have cared less for making Kenma comfortable and pushed more for the answers he truly believes he deserves after almost two decades of silence. It’s useless to argue with Koutarou on the matter, however much Tetsurou wants to. </p><p>“You’re right,” he concedes, grumbling when his best friend only lets out another booming laugh. “Don’t let it get to your head, idiot. And <em> shut up</em>, Keiji is going to yell at you again.”</p><p>“I’m right! You said I’m right!” Koutarou hoots into the room, dancing out of Tetsurou’s reach when he tries to kick his friend in the leg. “Hey, hey, hey! Let’s not cause injury in the workplace!”</p><p>Tetsurou is halfway out of his chair, fingers gripping tight at the edge of Koutarou’s shirt, ready to pull his friend back to manhandle him into <em>silence</em> when a hesitant voice pops up from behind his chair.</p><p>“Tetsurou? Are… are you busy right now?”</p><p>Knowing that the moment Tetsurou let go, Koutarou was going to dash back to his desk to both avoid Tetsurou’s wrath and Keiji’s ire, Tetsurou lets out a heavy sigh, pinning his friend with a glare before letting the fabric between his fingers slip away.</p><p>“Dinner at ours tonight!” Koutarou calls as he runs away, ignoring Keiji’s yelling to <em>stop running</em>.</p><p>Spinning around in his chair, Tetsurou finds Lev standing there, a few pages tightly gripped in his hands. “What’s up, Lev?” he motions for the intern to come closer.</p><p>Taking it as his cue that it was okay to start talking, Lev bounces the remaining distance between himself and Tetsurou, all hesitance immediately getting washed away in his excitement. “Right! So I was thinking,” Lev starts off, placing the two papers on Tetsurou’s desk, “this author here: their final deadline is too close to the date we have to send the manuscript to the printers? They aren’t giving us—or themselves, really—enough wiggle room for error.”</p><p>Looking at the schedule in front of him, Tetsurou finds that <em>yes</em>, the author had cut their final manuscript with only about a week for the editors to give their final thoughts and send it to the printers. “Good catch!” he applauds the intern, patting him on the back. “Make note of it and draft an email to the author in question. Send it to Keiji or Morisuke—if they’re busy, you can CC me as well. We’ll look over it for you. If all goes well, you can send the email tomorrow when you come in.</p><p>Lev looks up, gathering the papers once more. “Me? You’ll let me email the author?”</p><p>“Of course! You’re the one who noticed this, you should be the one to tell them!” Tetsurou doesn’t mention that if he must deal with yet another irate author thinking that their writing was above all edits, he was going to be going to prison for murder.</p><p>“Thank you, Tetsurou! I promise I won’t let you down!” With that, Lev bounces away. Tetsurou watches him leave and wonders, for a second, if the intern had heard him say to send it to the project managers first.</p><p>Oh well. </p>
<hr/><p>According to Keiji, Tetsurou is only invited to dinner because <em> If I have to deal with another day of your careless mistakes, Tetsurou, I will not be responsible for when I or Morisuke kill you, so please come to dinner</em>.</p><p>Tetsurou will never be in a position where he is able to say no to Keiji, especially when there is a threat of his <em>own </em>death coming out of his friend’s mouth. Had he said no, Tetsurou is positive that he would have had an accident “conveniently” happen to him. Keiji was one of God’s favorite children, what Keiji wanted, Keiji got.</p><p>Of course, Tetsurou isn’t helpless, he knows <em>exactly </em>how to push Keiji’s buttons to make him regret that he ever asked Tetsurou such a thing in the first place.</p><p>“Stop!” Keiji finally snaps as the three of them eat dinner. “I hate you both. You are absolutely disgusting.” Tetsurou tries to catch his eye, but Keiji refuses to even look up from where his gaze rests on his wine glass—only a sip left if Tetsurou was any judge.</p><p>He can’t help but laugh, barely managing to cover his mouth at the last second, lest pasta comes flying out. Across from Tetsurou, Koutarou isn’t faring any better, face red as he gulps down his entire glass of water followed by the rest of his wine.</p><p>Moments prior to Keiji’s outburst, both Koutarou and Tetsurou had thought it was appropriate to shove as much of Keiji’s cajun chicken pasta as they possibly could.</p><p>“Sorry, sorry,” Tetsurou coughs as he attempts to talk about the lump of pasta and meat lodged in his throat. “We’ll stop, I promise.”</p><p>Ears pink, Keiji looks up from his plate, his glare weak as he stares Tetsurou down, “Do you feel better?” the man grumbles, reaching for the bottle of wine left on the table. </p><p>“Of course!” Tetsurou lies. The smile on his face even reaches his eyes, he knows. Though, it’s not really a lie, just a stretch of the truth. It’s not that he feels <em>better</em>, but having Koutarou and Keiji with him does distract him from the problem he has at hand.</p><p>Honestly, he knew he shouldn’t have let himself care for his former friend. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, Tetsurou assumes.</p><p>“Keiji, Keiji,” Koutarou comments, reaching out to grab the wine bottle from his boyfriend. There’s a moment where Tetsurou sees the two of them pause, a moment where he believes that, if he hadn’t come tonight, would have resulted in a kiss between the two.</p><p>Shocking no one, it only serves to make Tetsurou feel <em>worse</em>. </p><p>“I’ll clean,” Tetsurou volunteers loudly. Before either of his friends can protest, he starts collecting their empty plates and water glasses, leaving Keiji and Koutarou’s wine glasses behind. Tetsurou catches the minute frown on Koutarou’s face and offers his best friend his best smile as he balances the dishes in his arms and makes his way to the kitchen.</p><p>Tetsurou isn’t alone for very long before Keiji follows him in. He stands next to Tetsurou in silence, drying the dishes as Tetsurou washes them.</p><p>“Sorry,” Tetsurou breaks the silence, shoulders slumping as he sighs. “I know you guys planned to use this to cheer me up. But I just can’t stop thinking about where he could be. He never—”</p><p>“It’s okay,” Keiji interrupts, laying a hand on Tetsurou’s arm. Even between the layer of Tetsurou’s sweater, Keiji’s touch is warm. “It’s okay to be scared.”</p><p><em> It’s okay to be scared</em>. These words echo in Tetsurou’s brain, yet he’s not sure if he truly believes in them.</p><p>Because Tetsurou shouldn’t be scared. Scared for what? Scared for <em> Kenma</em>? Why? All because of a few meetings? Meetings where he didn’t push hard enough for the answers to questions he has been waiting for, for almost twenty years? Why should Tetsurou be scared for someone who didn’t hold him in high enough regard to confide in him—both in the past and now?</p><p>Tetsurou had no reason to be scared, it was irrational. Hanging on to the thinnest strand of hope that he could mend their relationship. At the end of the day, it was clear what Kenma thought of Tetsurou.</p><p>“I don’t think…” Tetsurou lets the plate in his hands slip back into the sink. Keiji steps closer to him and presses their shoulders together. “I don’t think I can go through this again.” <em> I don’t think I’m strong enough </em>he doesn’t voice.</p><p>“Then don’t,” Keiji says simply, giving Tetsurou a pause. He looks over at Keiji, finding his friend busying his hands with the towel to dry the dishes. “You’re not sixteen anymore, Tetsurou. You don’t have to go through this at all.”</p><p>Tetsurou sets his gaze back at the soapy plates in the sink, wondering if he really could step back or if it was too late for him to back out no matter how much he wanted to.</p><p>“If you do want to stick with Kenma,” Keiji continues, “you have Koutarou and me.” Tetsurou lets himself smile at that. “Just remember that your life is not dictated by him. You have other people who care about you more than this friend of yours does.”</p><p>Tetsurou picks up a plate, wordlessly washing it before handing it over to Keiji. “Thank you,” he says lowly, his stare fixated on the movement of the sponge in his hands. “Thank you, Keiji.”</p><p>“We love you, Tetsurou!” Koutarou’s voice booms from behind them. Tetsurou turns to find his best friend leaning against the archway entrance to the kitchen, Koutarou’s usual grin on his face. “We support you, whatever you decide to do, okay? If you get hurt again, we’re here this time too. We’ll piece you back together.”</p><p>It brings tears to Tetsurou’s eyes and he blinks them back rapidly. “Promise?” he asks the two of them, voice wavering.</p><p>Keiji takes Tetsurou’s hand, twining their fingers together as he looks from Tetsurou to Koutarou. “We promise.”</p>
<hr/><p>Although going to the café <em>knowing </em>there would be no chance to run into Kenma is a bit jarring, Tetsurou had claimed A Loutte years before he knew Kenma even existed in the same city as himself.</p><p>Usually, on days where Tetsurou is feeling a little under the weather and needs a good pick-me-up, Tobio would be behind the register. Tetsurou claims it’s witchcraft, but Tobio shot him down every time claiming it was just Tetsurou’s luck.</p><p>However, there is no Tobio when Tetsurou walks in. Instead, Tetsurou sees a short young lady, blond hair tied into a high ponytail.</p><p>“Hello!” the young woman calls, voice chipper, “Welcome to—oh! Tetsurou! Hi!”</p><p>As Tetsurou crosses the distance between the front door and the counter, he recognizes the barista. Clearly, the gods chose today to smile down upon him.</p><p>“Hitoka! It’s been forever!” Tetsurou debates if he should walk around the counter to hug her. Luckily, she seems to read his mind and darts around the counter to hug Tetsurou. “How have you been? I thought for a while you quit!”</p><p>Hitoka giggles in his arms, swaying with Tetsurou as he rocks the two of them back and forth. “No no!” she says against his chest. “I had a lot going on with school.”  Hitoka detaches herself from Tetsurou and puffs out her chest with a large smile. “But I graduate next summer!”</p><p>After letting Tetsurou give her a round of applause, Hitoka returns to her spot behind the counter. Tetsurou notices that her cheeks are more flushed than usual, though he does not comment on the matter. “I’m proud of you. Fashion major right?” Tetsurou asks as Hitoka swipes his card. At Hitoka’s enthusiastic nod, Tetsurou cannot help but laugh. “It’s good to have you back Hitoka,” he says lightly, “I’m sure the staff missed you just as much as I did.”</p><p>“Except Tobio,” Hitoka replies with her twinkling laughter. Honestly, if Tetsurou were to ever raise children, he would hope that they would grow up to be as kind-hearted and sweet like Hitoka. “As soon as he saw me, he told me not to ask him to model my clothes for school.”</p><p>“Ah, well…that’s Tobio for you.” Tetsurou winks at her. “Keep asking anyways, I love it when you annoy him for me.”</p><p>As Tetsurou gets settled into the spot that he and Kenma had sat at over the months, he notes that it does finally feel a bit odd to be here without his former friend.</p><p>But. That’s life.</p><p>There were few things in Tetsurou’s life he could comfortably say were <em>his </em>in some way—and Kenma was not one of them.</p><p>It was likely he never would be.</p><p>And Tetsurou was going to, once more, learn to live without him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Pls leave cute comments/kudo if u liked this chapter lol. Hopefully there is no disruption in my posting schedule but I will be busy between posting since school starts back up and i have to go thru the application process for study abroad this semester.</p><p>Chapter 4: Out September 9th! </p><p><a href="https://twitter.com/mutsukx">twitter</a> // <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1i5dOq5DsBVOUJVj21jKgM?si=g7xuPXsmS7q_XWOy37LQ7w">fic playlist</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. learning to hate you as a self defense mechanism</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Yes Tetsurou,” Keiji says gently, eyes still twinkling in amusement as he glances over at Tetsurou, “if you remembered what transpired last night, I highly doubt you would be sitting next to me right now.”</p><p>And that makes Tetsurou’s blood run cold.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Wednesday! You're almost thru the week, just a little more and it will be the weekend! As always thank you to Em M. Milk for being my beta reader for this fic, ily for putting up with my shit.</p><p>chapter title taken from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I0f147Fo1tw&amp;ab_channel=flatsound">learning to hate you is a defense mechanism</a><br/>by flatsound</p><p>Warnings: drunk flashbacks</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s odd, Tetsurou notes, having the office be <em>this </em>silent. Odder still that Koutarou is sitting silently at his desk, gaze focused on his laptop screen. Tetsurou distantly wonders where his friend’s glasses are, knowing that by the end of the day Koutarou was going to be complaining about yet <em>another </em>headache induced by his laser focus on the plethora of emails aspiring writers send to him.</p><p>He takes comfort in the relative quiet. Takes comfort in the staccato sounds of pens scratching against paper. Takes comfort in the way he can hear the printer from two rooms over, the drone of printing pages followed by a singular beep to signal the printing job was completed. It eases him, gives him that extra boost of attention so he can focus on the manuscript in front of him.</p><p>“Tetsurou! You’ve been avoiding us!”</p><p>The sudden spike in volume startles Tetsurou and his red pen goes scraping across the page, leaving behind an ugly line that renders the entire page useless. He looks up, insult pressed against the seam of his lips, ready to beat Koutarou to a damn <em>pulp</em>.</p><p>Except.</p><p>It’s Lev who stands in the entryway of their door, his face split in a blinding grin. And really, Tetsurou may call himself an asshole, but he wasn’t going to be mean to some kid.</p><p>“Lev?” Tetsurou calls, staring down the intern, his eyes moving down to notice the young man holding a manilla folder. Likely something for Keiji. “Shut up.”</p><p>“Yes,” Keiji seconds from his desk. Tetsurou watches as Lev brightens despite the cool tone Keiji uses and bounces over to Keiji’s desk, handing over the folder. Keiji takes it gracefully—as he always is—peeking at the contents before setting it to the side. “Please refrain from using your outdoor voice indoors, Mr. Haiba.”</p><p>Before Lev can reply, Koutarou starts laughing, the sound booming even in the large space of their office. Tetsurou knows that working would be futile at this point and wastes no time in switching his stare from Lev to Koutarou. His friend has his head tilted back as he continues to laugh, shoulders shaking with the force of it. Wasting no time, Tetsurou launches his editing pen across the room, feeling victorious when the pen hits his best friend in the face.</p><p>“Hey!” Koutarou shocks in mock pain, holding the cheek where Tetsurou’s pen had smacked him. “That was mean!” Tetsurou wonders if Lev and Koutarou were to have a yelling match, just who would win. He says nothing in reply to his friend, letting a shit-eating grin spread across his features.</p><p>“<em> Koutarou! </em> ” Keiji snaps. Tetsurou watches as Koutarou’s face goes from a carefree to just a <em> tad </em>fearful, which in Tetsurou’s eyes, is an appropriate response to Keiji raising his voice in any situation. “That applies to you as well: do not use your outdoor voice <em> indoors </em>.”</p><p>Feeling vindicated now that Keiji was clearly on his side, Tetsurou moves to pull another red pen out from his drawer. He sees the stark red line across the page in front of him and remembers that this was all Lev’s fault, to begin with. “Lev?” Tetsurou calls, knowing that the intern is still loitering around their office. “Print me off another copy of pages 78 and 79 from Fukunaga’s latest manuscript. Your shouting ruined this copy.”</p><p>“On it!” Tetsurou glances up in time to catch the intern rush out of the room, catching the red on his ears. Tetsurou hopes that he didn’t embarrass the intern, but work was work.</p><p>Tetsurou doesn’t even get the chance to move on to the next page in his author’s manuscript before his name is being called again, though at an appropriate volume. He looks up at the sound, a hum sounding in his throat. “Yeah, Keiji?” he calls back, tilting his head to the side. “Need help?”</p><p>“No, I am fine, thank you,” Keiji replies, delicately placing the pen in his hands behind his ear. “Lev is not wrong. You have been skipping out on team bonding exercises, amongst other things. Morisuke and his team have noticed your absence as well.”</p><p>Tetsurou says nothing, averting his gaze from Keiji to stare at the wall. There’s something to be said about the way Keiji speaks so plainly yet somehow never outright says what he means. Tetsurou would think that after knowing the man for close to half of his life he would be immune to the thinly veiled threats that Keiji could spit at him, but fourteen years of friendship and Tetsurou <em>still </em>feels scolded.</p><p>“We miss you, dude,” Konoha sounds from several desks down. Koutarou echoes his sentiment and Tetsurou spins in his chair to face the coworkers that work further away from the door.</p><p>“It’s Friday, you know? Maybe a few of us can go out to a pub or something,” Koutarou, thankfully, doesn’t shout, but his voice carries all the same.</p><p>Tetsurou mulls over the information, a smile playing on his lips as his fellow editors call out that they can’t make it out on such short notice, but they <em>do </em>miss him. It’s a reminder that his life does not revolve around a singular blond man, that the universe does not stop because Tetsurou is <em>sad</em>.</p><p>“Only if you want,” Keiji says after a time. “We do not mean to pressure you. Just show you that the team misses you.” The <em> I miss you </em>goes unsaid, but Tetsurou hears it all the same.</p><p>Still, Tetsurou mulls over if he truly wants to go be social. And the truth is, he doesn’t—not really. But dinner with Keiji and Koutarou had been a few weeks ago and despite Tetsurou sending a few texts to the number Kenma messaged him on, there had been no reply.</p><p>Keiji <em>had </em>said that no matter what, the team would be there for him. That he and Koutarou would always help him where they could.</p><p>So maybe…maybe going out and socializing will be good for him. Maybe it can take his mind off Kenma, off the crushing idea that Kenma has left him again.</p><p>That Tetsurou had cared too much for a man who disposed of him with barely a word.</p><p>“Fine.”</p>
<hr/><p>Awareness washes over Tetsurou in waves, waking one sense with each crash against the shoreline of his mind. First is the sense of touch, the feeling of a chest pressed firmly against his back, the steady puff of air that hits the back of his neck. It’s warm in this person’s embrace, their legs tangled with Tetsurou’s, and their arm draped lightly around Tetsurou’s waist. </p><p>As the second wave crashes, Tetsurou notices the taste in his mouth is similar to what he assumes the filth at the bottom of their city dumpster tastes like—rancid and sickly sweet, with a sour note at the end—overlaid with what he believes was his drunk self’s poor attempt to brush his teeth. The taste makes Tetsurou’s stomach somersault, but luckily his organs stay in their correct spots. Smell comes to him in the form of fresh linen. At first, Tetsurou thinks it’s the sheets around him, but when the person behind him shifts closer, arm tightening around his middle and the sent grows stronger he realizes—</p><p>It’s Koutarou.</p><p>Tetsurou lies there for a moment, waves subsiding as he takes in the knowledge that it’s Koutarou behind him, that it’s <em> Koutarou </em>holding him in the same manner as they used to. It hasn’t happened in years—not since they bought the apartment Tetsurou still resides in. It’s nice. It’s safe.</p><p>It feels like home.</p><p>Hearing and vision come hand in hand, though Tetsurou notes that hearing comes first by the way of Koutarou giving a rather loud grumble in his ear. Vision follows as his best friend shifts his legs, accidentally kneeing Tetsurou in the thigh and causing Tetsuou’s eyes to fly open in shock.</p><p>Luckily, Keiji was the type of person to loathe sunlight where it was not desired, and their bedroom just so happened to be an undesired place for sunlight. Tetsurou lies awake in the bed that <em> Keiji </em>and Koutarou share, basking in the morning warmth and dim light as he collects his thoughts and memories from the night before.</p><p>Or well, what he <em>remembers </em>from the night, which, in retrospect, is not a whole lot. Tetsurou can remember getting to the pub, though to be fair it was more like an overly fancy bar. He recalls the first few drinks, the ease of chatter between himself and Morisuke. Lev was the first one to leave, claiming that though he was an intern he still had classes to attend.</p><p>Remembers getting another drink. Remembers going home and—</p><p>“Good morning,” Keiji greets from the couch as Tetsurou stumbles into the living room. “Do you feel alright?</p><p>“No,” Tetsurou croaks, leaning into the wall as the world spins around him. “Coffee? Food?” Maybe putting something in his stomach will stop it from the feeling that it was going to claw its way out his mouth.</p><p>Maybe drinking coffee would soothe the rawness of his throat.</p><p>Yeah, and maybe hitting his head against the wall would make Tetsurou’s brain recall the memories that alcohol ensured would be forgotten.</p><p>“Coffee is in the pot and there are muffins on the counter,” Keiji says when Tetsurou pushes himself from the wall, already stumbling his way to the kitchen. “Please refrain from further injuring yourself any more than you did last night.” </p><p>Tetsurou pays no mind to Keiji’s politely caustic words. Considering no sore muscles and no bruises were lining his body, whatever injury Tetsurou has acquired is small enough for his <em>sober </em>brain to disregard it. Still, Tetsurou does try to remember more events from the prior night as he fixes himself a cup of coffee and grabs a muffin, heading back into the living room to settle onto the couch.</p><p>“Please grab at least a <em> napkin </em>?” Keiji eyes him with an expression that Tetsurou would call open disdain on anyone except Keiji. Cheekily he ignores his friend’s words, carefully curling into the opposite corner of the couch. “You and Koutarou are…unpleasant.”</p><p>“Fourteen years,” Tetsurou garbles between bites of muffin—and, oo, cinnamon apple! This time Keiji moves to nudge at Tetsurou’s legs, frown etched into his features. Sheepishly, Tetsurou swallows his food before speaking again. “Sorry, good morning Keiji.”</p><p>“Good morning, Tetsurou. I hope you slept well.” Keiji returns to scrolling through his phone, thin fingers tapping at the screen intermittently. “It was a bit cramped, but the three of us fit well.”</p><p>Three? That would explain why Koutarou was so on top of him, at least.</p><p>Muffin settling nicely in the confines of his stomach, Tetsurou places the wrapper on the coffee table in front of him and picks up his coffee mug. “I don’t remember much from last night, just…just to let you know.”</p><p>To his surprise, Keiji laughs at that, the sound matching perfectly with the mid-morning light streaming through the open curtains. Tetsurou watches, dazed for a time as his friend giggles softly, eyes squinted in obvious mirth even as Keiji drops his phone to cover his mouth. “Yes Tetsurou,” Keiji says gently, eyes still twinkling in amusement as he glances over at Tetsurou, “if you remembered what transpired last night, I highly doubt you would be sitting next to me right now.”</p><p>And <em>that </em>makes Tetsurou’s blood run cold. Carefully, he brings the coffee mug to his lips, taking several sips before speaking once more. “What…what did I do?”</p><p>More giggling follows Tetsurou’s words, but Keiji does not reply to him for a time, causing Tetsurou to break out in a cold sweat. He’s seconds from begging Keiji to just <em>tell him</em>, when his friend lets out a soft sigh, index finger tapping rhythmically at his bottom lip.</p><p>“Tetsurou?” Keiji asks sweetly. He turns back to pick up his phone, unlocking it but not inputting his password. “Do you think I’m a bad kisser?”</p><p>Tetsurou’s eyebrows furrow at the question, unsure what the fuck such a question has to do with anything. “I don’t…think you’re a bad kisser? Why would you be?” It’s not like <em>he’s </em>ever…</p><p>Kissed…</p><p>
  <em> Tetsurou presses his face into the crook of Keiji’s neck, hands curled around his waist as he shudders against his friend. Keiji’s throat vibrates as he speaks, but the words go over Tetsurou’s head. The movement is soothing, easing the tension in his body as he breathes in the smell of unnamed citrus and something almost spicy against Keiji’s skin. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Miss you,” Tetsurou says against Keiji’s skin, pulling himself away to look down at his friend. He can feel his mouth pull into a smile and Keiji stares back up at him, gaze unfocused. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> God, they are so drunk. </em>
</p><p>Tetsurou must have a rather unpleasant expression on his face because Keiji laughs again, snorting softly into the palm of his hand. “I’m…I’m sorry?” Tetsurou says, voice pitching high in horror. “Oh my god, Keiji, I’m so sorry.”</p><p>None of them were blind to the crush Koutarou and Tetsurou had on Keiji back in university, Tetsurou couldn’t count the times he thought about kissing his friend, about holding Keiji’s thin hands between his own. It wasn’t shocking to any of them that it was Koutarou who won Keiji’s affection. Tetsurou never faulted either of them for their relationship, and more often than not they were asked if it was some sort of three-way relationship. But to <em>kiss </em>him?</p><p><em> Tetsurou isn’t sure how they got inside the apartment, or what had happened between the door closing and Keiji laughing as Tetsurou took off his boots, but the press of Keiji’s hands under his shirt feels heavenly. Tetsurou isn’t sure which one of them gasps against the other, but the press of lips against his own drowns out every other thought in Tetsurou’s head that isn’t </em>more<em>. </em></p><p>“You’re a wonderful kisser,” Keiji states, amusement coloring his words. Tetsurou wonders if Keiji is enjoying Tetsurou’s mortification just a little <em>too much</em>. “In case you were wondering.”</p><p>“I…I was not wondering,” Tetsurou says lamely, still reeling from the conversation at hand and his brain running a mile a minute to fill in the gaps that his alcohol-addled mind had scraped from his memory. “But thank you for informing me that even drunk, I can kiss well? I’m sorry, are you <em> not </em> mad at me?”</p><p>This time it’s Keiji who looks shocked, though he schools his expression back into its normal impassive state quickly after. “No, I am not mad at you, Tetsurou.”</p><p>
  <em> This time Tetsurou knows it’s Keiji who gasps first, knocking his head back against the door. He can feel Keiji’s chest expand with heavy breaths and can see the way spit slick lips shine in the dim light of the apartment. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tetsurou presses a kiss against the corner of Keiji’s mouth, hums as his friend gives a pitiful whine before he trails kisses down Keiji’s throat to his collarbone. “Miss you, miss you,” Tetsurou mumbles against Keiji’s Adam’s apple. “You’re so good to me.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Hands slip from under Tetsurou’s shirt to run over the fabric stretched taut along his spine before threading through his hair. It is with urgent but gentle tugs that Keiji draws Tetsurou back into a messy kiss. Tetsurou slips his tongue into Keiji’s mouth, swallowing the whine that tries to spill from between his lips. </em>
</p><p>Truly, Tetsurou doesn’t understand <em>how </em> Keiji isn’t mad at him. Of course, he knows, it takes two people to…to do what they did, but that doesn’t mean that he shouldn’t be at least apologetic for it? Or was Keiji bottling up his anger for the sake of Tetsurou’s feelings?</p><p>“I can hear you thinking from here.” Keiji gives a short breathless laugh, uncurling his legs from under him to stretch them out along the length of the couch. The tips of his bare feet barely press against the bottom of Tetsurou’s foot, the touch light enough to make Tetsurou shift away with a laugh of his own. “Neither Koutarou nor I am angry, I promise you. To use Koutarou’s words, it was ‘pretty fucking hot’.”</p><p>Tetsurou snorts. He can see it easily. Koutarou walking in from wherever he had been during this…<em> this </em>thing that happened between him and Keiji, only to think it was hot and not what it truly was.</p><p>Cheating.</p><p>God, Tetsurou was a homewrecker. Or had attempted to be one, at the very least. How mortifying, Tetsurou thinks. If that wasn’t enough, Tetsurou recalls just minutes prior--</p><p>“Wait, why did you ask me if I thought you were a bad kisser?”</p><p>Keiji hums, curling his legs back under him. “You were crying soon after Koutarou found us.” Keiji’s stare sweeps over Tetsurou, equal parts fond yet judging. “You didn’t notice him at first. Kept repeating the same name against my cheeks, and I noticed you were crying.”</p><p>
  <em> Tetsurou blinks, the haze of alcohol clearing for a moment to allow him to question just how he got from the doorway to being wrapped between Koutarou and Keiji. The thought doesn’t stick in his head long enough for Tetsurou to voice his confusion and soon enough he can’t stop crying. “You’re okay,” Keiji says where he lies against Tetsurou’s front. “I’m sorry, you’re okay. I’m here…we’re here.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It’s all Tetsurou can do to curl further around his friend, distantly aware that Koutarou is pressing closer against his back, and cries until darkness swallows him whole. </em>
</p><p>Is there anything <em>more </em>mortifying than making out with one of his best friends and then sobbing in their bed until he passed out? Tetsurou thinks <em>not</em>. He’s unaware of Keiji moving closer to him until Keiji wraps his thin fingers around Tetsurou’s wrist.</p><p>“You know,” Keiji says lightly, “it’s not the first time you’ve cried in front of us.”</p><p>Despite the placating tone to Keiji’s words, Tetsurou stares into the dark depths of his coffee instead of offering any sort of reply. Because at the end of the day, it <em>is </em>true. He’s cried in front of them more times then he can count on both his hands and feet over the years. </p><p>“That’s comforting,” Tetsurou deadpans when Keiji tightens his grip on Tetsurou’s wrist. “Thank you for your words of wisdom, Keiji.”</p><p>“Stop being mulish,” Keiji chides, letting go of Tetsurou’s wrist and getting off the couch. He picks up Tetsurou’s discarded muffin wrapper. He shoots Tetsurou a murderous look, but Tetsurou pretends not to notice it as he takes another sip from his coffee mug. “We have been friends for years. At the very least, don’t hide your feelings from us, okay?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Tetsurou says to Keiji’s retreating form, looking down into the now empty mug. “Thanks, Keiji.” Warmth blooms from the center of his chest and Tetsurou presses a hand over the spot absentmindedly. He doesn’t deserve friends like Keiji and Koutarou, but they stayed with him through thick and thin.</p><p>Tetsurou wonders if there will ever be a time when they have to lean on him, and hopes that he will be as steady and comforting as they are for him right now.</p><p>“Tetsurou?” Keiji calls from the kitchen. Tetsurou hums his reply, stretching his legs out in front of him as he reaches forward to place his empty mug in the same spot his wrapper had lain. “Pick up your mug and go wake Koutarou.”</p><p>How the <em> fuck </em>—</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>No Kenma in this chapter lol, tho I would 100% savor this chapter bc chapter 5 hit the ground running on that angst. I'll be updating the tags in three weeks, but ill add a warning in the chapter as well!</p><p>School sucks, I'm trying to work on chapter 9 rn, but if i cant finish it by the time chapter 5 is supposed to go up, i might have to delay the chapter in order to not catch up with what I've already written!</p><p>Chapter 5 release date is September 30th! </p><p>Talk to me or tag me in shit on my anitwt! I love making friends</p><p><a href="https://twitter.com/mutsukx">twitter</a> // <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1i5dOq5DsBVOUJVj21jKgM?si=g7xuPXsmS7q_XWOy37LQ7w">fic playlist</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. here with me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>With a sharp inhale, Tetsurou wills his hands to stop shaking, for his blood to stop freezing in his veins, for his body to stop panicking. He has no reason for it, there is no benefit for the flight or fight reflex to be activated. Tetsurou was not the one who suffered these injuries. His panic offers no aid, his pity heals no wounds.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>no, i did not forget to post yesterday. I just...had stuff going on, which seems to be a theme every damn Wednesday, so I'll be posting on Thursdays from now on! Sorry sorry!</p><p>If you are new to this story, welcome. I'm so sorry for everything I may or may not put you through these next few chapters. If you AINT new, I'm still sorry, I think i learned how to write sad things a little better than the first time around. </p><p>That being said, these tags ARE updated in the fic itself, but I will list the content warnings in the end notes!</p><p>If there is something you notice there that deserves to be added to that list, let me know!! Otherwise! Enjoy!</p><p>Edit: Oops, I forgot to add the song title! </p><p>chapter title taken from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YzR8BCmV9Ew&amp;ab_channel=SusieSuhOfficial">here with me</a><br/>by susie suh</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tetsurou is in the middle of watching a rerun of How It’s Made, a bowl of stir fry in his lap, when the doorbell rings. It’s not late enough in the evening for Tetsurou to find the occurrence <em>odd</em> —just after seven p.m.—though he’s not sure why his doorbell would ring. As far as he remembers, he hadn’t ordered anything off the internet recently and while the thought of Chikara showing up at his doorstep is enough to strike fear in even Tetsurou’s heart, he doubts that Chikara would show out without a prior warning. Even <em>if </em>Tetsurou had ignored him all week. He’s about to turn back to his episode, a bite of food halfway to his mouth when the doorbell rings <em>again</em>.</p><p>Yeah, no, what the hell?</p><p>It can’t be Koutarou or Keiji, they both have their respective keys. Though Koutarou would come over without warning, Tetsurou knows that the two of them are curled up cozy in their <em>own </em>apartment. At the third ringing of Tetsurou’s doorbell, he finally calls it quits, getting up from the couch to see what the hell someone wants from him.</p><p>Hopefully, it’s not a fan of his work that managed to deduce where he is living. That would…be unfortunate because the last thing Tetsurou wants to do right now is <em>move</em>. As Tetsurou yanks open the door, a scathing comment pushing at the seam of his lips—</p><p>Except.</p><p>It dies the moment his eyes land on the person on the other side of the door.</p><p>“Tobio told me your address.” The person says, his voice calmer than Tetsurou thinks he has <em>any </em>right to be feeling right now.</p><p>Tetsurou stares down at the person in front of him, mere feet away, and seriously debates slamming the door in his face. Debates yelling at him, grabbing him, and shaking him until their head lolls off his shoulders and onto the ground. Wonders if he screams himself hoarse if the man in front of him would understand.</p><p>If the man in front of him would <em>realize</em>. Realize that Tetsurou isn’t indestructible. How he wishes, every day, to turn back time to sixteen years ago and redo the choices he made, the words he said. How he wishes, every day, to be the person that Kenma can lean on, can trust.</p><p>Would Kenma understand him, if Tetsurou dared to tell him? Would Kenma trust him again? Would Kenma <em>stay </em>if Tetsurou promised he wouldn’t break this time?</p><p>Tetsurou doubts it.</p><p>In the end, Tetsurou does none of these things. Does not scream, does not cry. Instead, he takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm the rapid thud of his heart, letting his hand relax its previous death grip on the door handle. </p><p>“Kenma,” Tetsurou says on an exhale, the words vanishing into the air between them, barely reaching Kenma’s ears.</p><p>Three months, Tetsurou calculates, absentmindedly rubbing at the spot above his heart. Three months of silence, two months of nothing more than a single message of <em> I’m sorry </em>to satiate Tetsurou’s fears. Three <em>months</em>.</p><p>And yet.</p><p><em> Somehow</em>.</p><p>Kenma stands in his doorway, clad in the same dark grey hoodie Tetsurou had last seen in him, though now it looks dirtier, more threadbare then it had back before Christmas. Tetsurou notes that his hair has grown at least an inch in the time that he had last seen the man, dirtied blond locks sticking to the exposed skin on Kenma’s neck.</p><p>“Where…where have you been?” Tetsurou reaches out to touch Kenma, freezing up when the man shrinks back, eyes wide. Tetsurou slowly lowers his hand, his gaze lowering with it, and—</p><p>Notices the dark red marks around Kenma’s wrists.</p><p>With yet another deep inhale, Tetsurou steps back into the apartment, watching the way Kenma keeps his stare on Tetsurou’s hands. It makes something break in his heart, though Tetsurou isn’t sure if he’s ready to dissect the reasons <em>why</em>. “Okay, okay, come inside. Please.”</p><p>Kenma flicks his gaze up to meet Tetsurou’s stare for the briefest of seconds, giving a small nod of his head before he steps inside of the apartment. Tetsurou says nothing about the wide berth Kenma gives him but <em>does </em>notice the uneven gait the man has.</p><p>It is only when Kenma is fully inside the apartment that Tetsurou turns to close the door, the door whirring for a moment as it mechanically locks.</p><p>He wants to ask <em> are you okay? </em> Wants to ask what happened, if Kenma has been well. But knows that none of the answers are ones he wants to hear. Knows from experience that asking questions often leads to losing the one Tetsurou once held close to his heart.</p><p>Belatedly, Tetsurou wonders if he is strong enough to deal with whatever is going to transpire in this apartment tonight, wonders if he will look back years from now and wish he had done something different.</p><p>Wonders if there will be a time when he looks back on this and wishes to see Kenma once more. Tetsurou’s thoughts spiral, growing more and more frantic as he wonders about his next actions and consequences they may bring, when a choked sob shatters the cycle.</p><p>Immediately, Tetsurou focuses back on Kenma, taking in the way the man’s face is scrunched into an expression that Tetsurou can only describe as <em>fear </em>and <em>helplessness</em>. Watches as lips part to give yet another aborted sob while Kenma attempts to take off his shoes.</p><p>Something in Tetsurou finally—<em> finally— </em> unfreezes at the sound. And while a million questions spring to his mind, Tetsurou asks none of them. “Here, let me help you,” he begs, slowly coming closer to kneel in front of Kenma. “Can you lift your foot?” Wary, golden eyes track his every move, not much different from the stray cats Tetsurou used to coax out with food back at his and Koutarou’s first apartment. It’s heartbreaking, in a way, to see a human act so distrustful, though maybe he just thinks it's heartbreaking because it's him and<em> Kenma</em>.</p><p>Wishes, not for the first time, that Kenma could trust him.</p><p>Tetsurou does not move from where he kneels until Kenma gives another small nod. With careful movements, Tetsurou unlaces and tugs off Kenma’s shoes one at a time, actively ignoring the pained whines that sound from above him.</p><p>“Thank you,” Kenma whispers, voice cracked and hoarse. With both shoes now removed, he shuffles further into the house, pausing near Tetsurou’s couch.</p><p>As Tetsurou rises, he notices the uneven gait to Kenma’s steps, the way one arm hangs almost lifelessly to the side, the way he refuses to look Tetsurou in the eye. Still, Tetsurou allows none of the questions he has to spill from his lips. At least, none of the ones that would matter. “Are you okay?” He dares to ask, knowing that the answer is <em>no</em>. But still, he stands only a few feet from Kenma, not daring to come any closer.</p><p>A lesson learned sixteen years ago: he will not offer help where it is not wanted.</p><p>“No,” Kenma answers quietly, soft enough that his voice does not break on the word, but Tetsurou isn’t sure if that’s for the better. “No,” Kenma says again, his stare rising to meet Tetsurou’s, holding it this time. There is anger in those eyes, their color reminding Tetsurou of a factoid that the hottest color of lava is various shades of gold. “I’m…I’m—”</p><p>In the back of Tetsurou’s mind, he wonders why was the pain of sixteen years ago not enough? Were the traumatic events Kenma went through not <em>enough </em>for this universe? Why is it that, so many years later, Tetsurou is staring at the same boy he knew back then, the same expression on his face, with the same fear thumping in his heart?</p><p>Why, Tetsurou asks whatever god can hear him, is history doomed to repeat itself between the two of them? Was once not enough? Was losing Kenma the <em>first time </em>not enough?</p><p>“You’re okay,” Tetsurou finishes, despite the overwhelming urge to cry. He takes a single step towards Kenma, trying his hardest to keep his body language as non-threatening as possible. “You’re going to be okay.”</p><p>Kenma lets him creep closer, one slow step at a time. He looks seconds from disagreeing with Tetsurou’s words, seconds from telling Tetsurou what transpired in the three months he had been absent, but in the end, Kenma stays silent. Though there is terror written in the lines of his face, screaming in the shine of his eyes, Kenma places his hand into Tetsurou’s larger one, letting Tetsurou gently curl his fingers around Kenma’s palm.</p><p>“You’ll be okay,” Tetsurou repeats. “I’m going to help you, okay?” With slow steps, Tetsurou guides the two of them passed the couch, down the hall, and into the bathroom. Here, he knows, has a first aid kit. Here, he hopes, Kenma will be safe. Safe in his apartment, or in Tetsurou’s hands, Tetsurou is unsure.</p><p>But maybe.</p><p><em> Maybe</em>.</p><p>His actions here, in this moment, will help convince his old friend that Tetsurou is a haven. Safe, steady, sturdy.</p><p>Unbreaking.</p><p>It may be a lie, but it is one Tetsurou will try his best to keep hidden, if only for the sake of Kenma’s trust once more.</p><p>Once setting the first aid kit on the sink counter, Tetsurou turns back to Kenma, giving the hand in his grip a slight squeeze before Tetsurou lets it go. “I’m going to need you to take off your hoodie,” Tetsurou says softly, not wanting the volume of his voice to startle Kenma.</p><p>Though it was <em> Kenma </em>who asked for Tetsurou’s help in the first place, Kenma shakes his head, his eyes darting wildly around the bathroom, his good shoulder drawing tighter and tighter to his body. Unsure how to calm the man, Tetsurou takes a step back, hoping that the extra space will ease Kenma’s nerves. The moment Tetsurou steps back, Kenma seems to shrink even <em>further </em>into himself, wrapping his good arm around his stomach, the action pulling the sleeves of his hoodie further up his arms, revealing more of what Tetsurou can only describe as burns. He averts his gaze, his stomach churning at the sight.</p><p>“Kenma,” Tetsurou coaxes, “I can’t help you if you don’t take off your hoodie.</p><p>Again, Kenma shakes his head, though the movement is slightly more violent, the action causing a frown to crease his features. Before Tetsurou can say anything else, Kenma’s gaze locks with Tetsurou’s, tears glistening in his eyes. “I can’t,” Kenma whispers, voice catching on the phrase. The first tear escapes from Kenma’s eyes, trailing mournfully—alone—down his cheek. “I can’t move my arm.”</p><p>The words cause Tetsurou to pause, his eyes widening in the realization that while he noticed something was wrong with Kenma’s shoulder, he did not give any thought as to <em>what </em>was wrong with Kenma’s shoulder. “Okay, okay yeah. That’s—yeah.” Tetsurou speaks mostly to himself, repeating the phrase a few more times as he turns to rifle through the first aid kit in search of the scissors he <em>knows </em>are somewhere in there. “Okay,” he says yet again, pulling them from the depths of the kit.</p><p>When Kenma shrinks away from Tetsurou at the sight of the scissors, Tetsurou can only take a deep breath, burying the impulse once more to walk away from the situation in front of him.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Tetsurou soothes, showing Kenma the scissors but not moving from where he stands. “I’m going to cut off your hoodie, okay?” He waits for Kenma’s nod before moving closer.</p><p>The first snip sounds too loud in the otherwise silence of the bathroom. As Tetsurou reveals more and more of Kenma’s skin, the more his nausea grows. Bruises of varying shades are stark against Kenma’s pale skin. While their appearance seems to be rather haphazard, Tetsurou spies more than a few bruised bite marks concentrated around Kenma’s nipples. It’s repulsive, Tetsurou notes with mounting disgust, peeling away the fabric from Kenma’s arms.</p><p>Tetsurou can only describe the small circular wounds as cigarette burns, each wound seemingly in a different stage of healing. He itches to touch them, to feel the rough skin under his fingers, but Tetsurou refrains, pressing his fingers lightly against an unmarred patch of skin. “You smoke?” he asks.</p><p>“No,” Kenma answers shortly, almost as if he’s annoyed that Tetsurou would dare to ask such a stupid question. And that’s what it is. He knows it’s a stupid question.</p><p>But between a stupid question of <em>do you smoke </em>and the question <em>how the hell did you dislocate your shoulder</em>, Tetsurou is going to pick the one that is more likely to get answered.</p><p>However, Tetsurou <em>is </em>curious. With both sleeves fully removed from Kenma’s arms, he can clearly see the unnatural jut of Kenma’s collarbone where the curve of his shoulder <em>should </em>be. He’s seen it before, though last time it was because Koutarou had tried to shove his too large self down a children’s sized tube slide, popping his shoulder out of place midway through.</p><p>Back then, Tetsurou had laughed at his friend, taking care to set Koutarou’s shoulder back into place with a technique Tetsurou had only seen in his coworker Koushi’s sports medicine textbook.</p><p>Now? Now it’s not funny. Now, as Tetsurou surveys the rest of the injuries that litter Kenma’s upper body, he can only place a few guesses as to how his former friend had acquired these injuries.</p><p>None of them leave him feeling particularly well. Because he should have been there. Should have texted Kenma after that first message, should have begged for him not to go.</p><p>Should have done a lot of things, but Tetsurou knows as well as anyone that turning back time is impossible. And living with the consequences of his past actions is a burden he’s carried for more years then Tetsurou is willing to admit.</p><p>“Can you turn around for me?”</p><p>It is with hesitance that Kenma follows Tetsurou’s instructions, but when Tetsurou sees the state of Kenma’s shoulder from behind, it takes all his willpower not to bend over and vomit into the toilet just a few feet away from him. From this perspective, Tetsurou can see the clear handprint bruise against the concave area where Kenma’s shoulder blade lies.</p><p>As if sensing Tetsurou’s intentions, Kenma steps away from him before Tetsurou’s fingers can press against the outer edges of the bruise. “Please,” Kenma begs. “Please don’t touch it.”</p><p>The panic that colors Kenma’s words is sickening and Tetsurou must turn his head away from the sight in front of him in order to calm his stomach. He had an idea when he first saw Kenma, tattered, and scared at his doorstep. Had an inkling when he took notice of the uneven shuffle Kenma adopted, unlike the normal gait Tetsurou was used to from their numerous café meetings. His assumptions grew as he cut through the fabric of Kenma’s hoodie, grew further still at the way Kenma kept flinching from him.</p><p>But this. This clear handprint bruise that Tetsurou knew was the culprit of Kenma’s dislocated shoulder. The way Kenma shrinks from him, even after seeking Tetsurou out for help out of <em>anyone else </em>in his life.</p><p>No matter how Tetsurou slices it, with the information he has, he knows that in some form, Kenma was raped.</p><p>“Kenma,” Tetsurou says through the dread bubbling in his gut. “Your shoulder is dislocated, I’m going to have to touch it.” </p><p>Kenma visibly begins to shake at the words, back still to Tetsurou as he tries to curl both shoulders inwards. Immediately he yelps, the sound broken and raw and so pitiful that Tetsurou wishes he could hold the man close to him, for no other reason than to protect him. “Don’t,” Kenma pleads. “Don’t touch me.”</p><p>How, Tetsurou questions, is he supposed to help Kenma if he isn’t even allowed to touch the single injury that needs the most attention? Selfishly, Tetsurou wishes for a moment that he hadn’t answered the door. Though the thoughts are dispelled quickly, the lingering guilt rushes through Tetsurou regardless, settling uncomfortably in his chest. </p><p>“Did you want to go to the hospital instead?” Tetsurou asks, hoping that maybe if <em>he </em>couldn’t help Kenma, a trained professional could.</p><p>Except. Kenma bites out a sharp, “No!” louder than both times he had spoken prior to this. </p><p>Unsure what to do, Tetsurou scans the rest of Kenma’s injuries, taking note of a few perfect bite marks near the base of his neck. Keeping his gaze away from the unnatural jut of Kenma’s shoulder, Tetsurou’s eyes land on the thick band of red that seems to encompass Kenma’s wrist like a bloody bracelet.</p><p>“Okay, here’s what I can do—you can turn around now.” Tetsurou waits until Kenma is facing him again, dragging his stare away from the puffy red wound back to Kenma’s fearful gaze. “I can clean the wounds on your wrist first, but I’m going to have to touch your shoulder after that, alright?”</p><p>When Kenma says nothing, Tetsurou thinks for a moment that talking to a child might in fact be easier than this. “I’m going to need you to verbally tell me you’re okay with this, or I won’t help you and I’ll take you to the hospital.” At Kenma’s panicked expression, Tetsurou feels at least a <em> little </em>guilty for backing Kenma into such a corner but. He knows. Helping Kenma, no matter how much Tetsurou wants to, was going to take a toll on him. Emotionally more than anything else, and he <em>knows </em>this. Knows Kenma doesn’t know this. “I’m going to bandage your wrists first, okay? And then I’m going to lay you down so I can put your shoulder back in place, okay? I need you to agree to both terms.”</p><p>Again, Kenma says nothing, his eyes growing wide for a moment. Tetsurou feels cold fingertips bump against his and casts his gaze down to watch Kenma gently wrap his fingers around Tetsurou’s, squeezing them tight enough for Tetsurou’s knuckles to crack. Tetsurou watches the way Kenma’s other hand seems to shake hard enough Tetsurou would call it <em>vibrating</em>, as Kenma relaxes his grip on Tetsurou’s hand.</p><p>He does not let go.</p><p>Tetsurou, seeing the action for the statement of trust, tries one more time. “Are you okay with me treating your wrists first and then your shoulder?” he asks, gently tugging Kenma’s uninjured arm up so he can get a closer look at the wounds. “If you’re okay with this…nod your head—or squeeze my hand again, if that hurts.”</p><p>Kenma gives one slow nod, tongue darting out to lick at his lips, though no words pass through his parted mouth. The action does not satiate Tetsurou’s annoyance, he wishes Kenma would <em>talk to him</em>, but. Clearly, that was not going to happen. Compromise, Tetsurou assures himself, compromise.</p><p>Set with Kenma’s confirmation, Tetsurou carefully situates the two of them so that he can sit on the toilet seat cover, Kenma’s wrist cradled gently in one hand. With his free hand, Tetsurou digs through the first aid kit for the tube of antibacterial cream, giving a singular hum when he unearths it.</p><p>“This may sting,” he comments lightly, smearing the clear gel along Kenma’s wounded skin. From up close, he can see the braided pattern of rope etched into Kenma’s skin. At one point, Tetsurou has to stop to pull a coarse fiber from Kenma’s skin, wincing when the action reopens the skin. Luckily no blood bubbles to the surface, but the clear liquid that oozes from the reopened wound has Tetsurou pressing a ripped piece of toilet paper to the area until the liquid stops spilling over. Thankfully that piece of rope seems to be the only debris threaded into Kenma’s skin, but the damage left by such an object makes Tetsurou wonder just <em>how </em> Kenma got himself out of such a situation.</p><p>Fortunately, Tetsurou has enough bandaging for both of Kenma’s wrists, smoothing the layer of medical tape down with a light press of his fingers. “Done,” he says softly. He looks up to see Kenma’s eyes blink open to stare back at him, his waterline rimmed red.</p><p>Before he can think about how his actions could be viewed, Tetsurou reaches up to thumb away a lingering tear clinging to Kenma’s bottom lash.</p><p>“Oh,” Kenma mouths, the word barely making it to Tetsurou’s ears. Immediately, Tetsurou can feel the tips of his ears heat up and goes to distract himself by putting the bandages and antibacterial cream back into the first aid kit.</p><p>Standing between Tetsurou’s open legs, Kenma only presses fingertips just below the spot Tetsurou’s thumb had just been, eyes wide.</p><p>“Alright,” Tetsurou breaks the silence, turning back towards Kenma. “I can’t pop your shoulder back into place here. Do you wanna lay on the bed, or the coffee table?”</p><p>Kenma looks up from where his stare is fixated on the white bandages encircling his wrists, blinking a few times before replying, “Table.”</p><p>This time Tetsurou doesn’t have to lead Kenma through the apartment, letting him linger further behind. Reaching the coffee table first, Tetsurou makes quick work of the items on top of it—a remote, his phone, and his abandoned bowl of stir fry. Once the table is clear, Kenma sits atop the wood, staring at Tetsurou expectantly.</p><p>Tetsurou can see the fear in those eyes, can see the unshed tears just begging to be let loose. But he can also see the pride in the lines of Kenma’s face, in the way he holds his body.</p><p>This, Tetsurou thinks as horror bubbles in his gut, is the face of a man who is no stranger to the terrors of this world. He wishes, not for the first time, to know what has happened to this former friend of his in the time they have been apart. What could have put such a haunted look in those eyes?</p><p>Before those thoughts can devolve further, Tetsurou shakes them from his head, focusing on what he can remember from the few times he got to quiz Koushi on the various techniques plus the singular time he used one on Koutarou, almost seven years ago.</p><p>“Right,” Tetsurou says, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. “Lie down on your back, try to…try to relax the best you can, okay? Your shoulder especially.”</p><p>Wordlessly, Kenma does as Tetsurou asks, his legs hanging over the edge of the coffee table. In the back of his mind, Tetsurou wonders just where the little boy of only fourteen went.</p><p>“Will it hurt?” Kenma speaks up, golden eyes glancing at Tetsurou for a moment before Kenma slides them shut, chest heaving with what Tetsurou can only describe as a muffled sob.</p><p>“Not any more than it does now,” Tetsurou soothes, hoping that he’s right. Koutarou hadn’t complained back then, but back then the situation had been <em>funny</em>. Back then Tetsurou hadn’t been close to tearing his hair out. Back then Tetsurou hadn’t been this <em>scared</em>.</p><p>Without reopening his eyes, Kenma gives another nod, bottom lip disappearing between his teeth. Figuring that’s the best confirmation Tetsurou is going to get, he carefully wraps both of his hands around Kenma’s wrist, slowly shaking his arm up and down. He’s careful to keep an eye out on both Kenma’s facial expressions and the minute movements Tetsurou is making with his arm as he remembers that Koushi had once told him that too large of a distance would hinder more than help.</p><p>Steadily Tetsurou moves Kenma’s arm upwards, keeping up the small shaking movements as he does so. When Kenma’s arm is perpendicular to his body Tetsurou begins to alternate between moving Kenma’s arm up and down and a slow rotation of his arm, trying to ease the shoulder joint back into place.</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kenma’s face scrunch in discomfort, but when Tetsurou pauses his movements, Kenma only gives a shake of his head, eyes still squeezed shut.</p><p>Thankfully it doesn’t take much longer before Tetsurou can feel the graceful slide of Kenma’s shoulder going back into place. He keeps up the rotating movement until he has Kenma’s arm at a diagonal angle to his torso.</p><p>“I think you’re good,” Tetsurou says, bending Kenma’s arm at the elbow and placing it on his bare torso. “You can lie here for a bit, I’m going to go grab the first aid kit out the bathroom.” He waits for Kenma’s slow nod before quickly walking back to the bathroom to grab the first aid kit and walking right back.</p><p>“Does your arm feel better?” Tetsurou asks to announce his presence. Kenma’s eyes blink open lazily. “It’s recommended that I put it in a sling…but I don’t have one on me right now. If it still hurts tomorrow, I can go out and buy one.” Tetsurou takes a seat on the couch, spreading his legs open as he places the first aid kit next to him, locating both the cotton pads and a bottle of disinfectant.</p><p>Kenma turns his head to look at Tetsurou, still lying on his back. Tetsurou stares right back, teeth biting into his lower lip. “Um,” Kenma says softly, closing his eyes for a moment before blinking them open. “It hurts. To sit up.”</p><p>It takes a moment for the words to register, Tetsurou’s brain working overtime as it tries to remember just <em>why </em>Kenma would have difficulty sitting up. Or sitting, for that matter. Though Kenma’s face shows none of the shame that Tetsurou thinks he <em>should </em>be feeling—if for no other reason than the open admittance of what has happened to him—he only sees the guarded expression Kenma gives him, eyes narrowed into something almost judging.</p><p>Judging <em>him</em>, Tetsurou realizes.</p><p>“I can help you stand up,” Tetsurou offers after a beat of silence that goes on too long. “If you want me to, that is.”</p><p>Those eyes stare continue to stare at him, boring holes into the side of Tetsurou’s face before Kenma blinks and the judgement is gone. “Thank you,” he says in a whisper.</p><p>This time it’s Tetsurou who only offers a nod, getting back up from the couch to help Kenma back onto his feet. They say nothing as Tetsurou takes a seat on the couch and Kenma resumes his position between Tetsurou’s spread legs. With careful hands, Tetsurou sets to work on disinfecting the other various cuts that litter Kenma’s torso and arms, taking special care to place an adhesive bandage on the rather nasty bite marks and cigarette burns.</p><p>Fingers trailing lightly over the white bandaging around Kenma’s wrist, Tetsurou scans the rest of Kenma’s skin, making sure that he’s left no mark untouched. “Anywhere else?” Tetsurou asks, watching as Kenma curls his fingers around his wrist. “Do I need to—”</p><p>Kenma’s grip quickly tightens to something borderline painful, but Tetsurou doesn’t let the discomfort show on his face. Not for this. “No.” Though soft, Kenma spits the word out like it had wronged him, mouth pulled down in a deep frown. “I can do that.”</p><p>Part of Tetsurou doesn’t want to press Kenma too hard, but when he considers that not even twenty minutes prior he was on the coffee table, biting his lip red as Tetsurou slowly worked his dislocated shoulder back into place…well. Tetsurou believes it’s within his right to push a little harder. “Kenma…you don’t have to be scared of me.” With Kenma’s grip still tight around his wrist, Tetsurou wraps his fingers around the bandages pressed snug against Kenma’s skin. “You can trust me. <em> Please</em>, trust me.” Tetsurou meets Kenma’s stare, hoping that whatever is seen in his eyes is enough for Kenma to trust him.</p><p>Just a little more. That’s all Tetsurou asks. It is not what he deserves, he knows this, but he prays that Kenma will offer his trust anyways. If only to make Tetsurou prove his worth.</p><p>Finally, Kenma drops his gaze, releasing his grip on Tetsurou’s wrist to tug at the waistband of his dirtied sweats. “Okay…my thighs.” He looks back up at Tetsurou, eyes guarded once more. “<em> Only </em> my thighs.” He stresses.</p><p>Tetsurou can only offer a nod, mouth going dry as Kenma slowly pulls down his sweats, revealing one grotesque wound after the other. A patchwork of bruises covers Kenma’s thighs, disappearing under the fabric of his boxers. Tetsurou doesn’t even notice Kenma’s sweats pooling at his feet, eyes glued to the myriad of marks overlapping Kenma’s pale skin. Tetsurou can even see exactly where fingers had gripped too hard, marring Kenma’s thighs with hues of red and purple, wrapping almost delicately around the swell of his thigh.</p><p>Though there is no work Tetsurou can do to help the bruising, he does spy several bloodied bite marks on the inside of Kenma’s thigh, his stomach lurching as his eyes roam over the nearly perfect set of teeth marks carved into the skin.</p><p>With a sharp inhale, Tetsurou wills his hands to stop shaking, for his blood to stop freezing in his veins, for his body to stop panicking. He has no reason for it, there is no benefit for the flight or fight reflex to be activated. Tetsurou was not the one who got out of whatever Kenma did. Tetsurou was <em>not </em>the one who suffered these injuries. His panic offers no aid, his pity heals no wounds.</p><p>He knows this, and yet. Here he sits. Hands shaking, breath quickening. Mind racing with all the scenarios he can think of. How Kenma got hurt, why Kenma didn’t leave sooner. But, he reasons, his stare focusing back on the shakiness of his fingers, regardless of his feelings, patching Kenma up was his top priority.</p><p>“Okay…I’ll treat those bite marks first, and then? Icy hot? Bandages?” Tetsurou mumbles to himself as he presses a damp cotton pad to one of the marks, eyes closing when Kenma makes a whimper above him. With his lips pressed into a thin line, Tetsurou keeps himself from making any comments about the other dried substances he wipes from the insides of Kenma’s thighs nor does he react to the way Kenma jerks away from him when Tetsurou’s fingers touch too close to the hem of Kenma’s boxers.</p><p>“Finished,” Tetsurou comments, leaning back against the couch cushions. His fingers feel pruney and dry from the amount of disinfectant he’s soaked them in tonight, but the scattered bandages that stare back at Tetsurou from their place on Kenma’s skin comment that he has done a good job.</p><p>It’s not something he ever wants to repeat, but Tetsurou knows he would. For Kenma, Tetsurou does not know where he will draw the line. He’s not sure if he wants to find out what it is.</p><p>“Thank you,” Kenma replies, his good arm touching at a few of the bandages pressed against his skin. “Thank you.”</p><p>Tetsurou hums his acknowledgement, taking in the almost bare state of the man in front of him. It’s clear that Kenma will need a shower, will need to take care of himself in a way Tetsurou does not think he is qualified to do, but judging by the droop in Kenma’s eyes, Tetsurou knows that such a thing will not happen tonight. </p><p>“Did you want a washcloth to clean up in the bathroom?” he asks lightly, stretching his arms above his head. His shoulders give a satisfying pop. “I can grab fresh sweats and a shirt for you to change into. You don’t have to shower, but…if you wanted to clean up whatever I didn’t get to, you can.”</p><p>“Ah, yes. I would like that.” Kenma shuffles back a few steps to let Tetsurou rise off the couch, his fingers absentmindedly rubbing against the bandaging.</p><p>He follows Tetsurou to the bathroom, hovering just outside the doorway as Tetsurou busies himself with putting the first aid kit back under the sink, pulling out a fresh washcloth from the drawer just to the right of the sink cabinet. Kenma continues to loiter when Tetsurou comes back from his bedroom, a fresh pair of clothes in his hands. </p><p>“You can go in?” he says, voice pitched in confusion. “It’s okay, you don’t need my permission to go into the bathroom.” Tetsurou hands Kenma the folded clothes, watching as the man wanders in, the gentle shut of the door almost too quiet to be heard.</p><p>“I’ll be in the living room when you’re done,” Tetsurou calls out, then heads to the kitchen, detouring for just a moment to pick up his discarded stir fry bowl. He eats it as he walks, regretting the action the moment he bites his tongue mid-step.</p><p>With practiced ease, Tetsurou cleans up his dinner mess, folding the leftovers into two sets of Tupperware—one for himself for lunch and the other for Kenma. He manages to curl back into the plush cushions of his couch just as the bathroom door clicks back open, the subtle shuffle of feet against carpet the only indicator of Kenma’s presence.</p><p>“Don’t thank me again,” Tetsurou says around a smile upon seeing Kenma in front of him. Though Tetsurou knew that Kenma is shorter than him, seeing his shirt swallowing Kenma whole, the hem brushing against Kenma’s mid-thigh. “I already told you that it was okay, yeah? Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>“I appreciate it.” The words, though soft, are cheeky enough for Tetsurou to give a bark of laughter, covering his mouth when the sound startles Kenma.</p><p>“Hey, listen,” Tetsurou starts, shifting into a better sitting position. “It’s late, and I don’t want you going anywhere tonight, so please sleep here. You can sleep on the bed, yeah? I can handle sleeping on this bad boy for a night.” Tetsurou pats the couch, recalling the multitude of times he had passed out on these very cushions instead of making the short journey to his bed.</p><p>“I don’t want to…” Kenma starts, his good arm rubbing at the back of his neck.</p><p>“Nah! It’s fine, I don’t mind, really!” Tetsurou interrupts, hands waving in front of his face. “It’s not a big deal, I sleep here all the time.”</p><p>“Oh…I don’t want to sleep alone?” Tetsurou watches as Kenma’s face flushes pink, hand dropping to pull at the hem of his borrowed shirt. “If that’s okay?”</p><p>Uncertain as to <em>why </em> Kenma would want to share a bed with someone he barely knew, Tetsurou tilts his head. Stranger things have happened, he reasons. “Sure?” Still, the phrase comes out as a question. Tetsurou sees the way Kenma curls into himself, lips parting in what he assumes to be an excuse. “No, no, that’s fine too. As long as you're comfortable?”</p><p>Kenma nods, shoulders relaxing in obvious relief. “’M fine, it's fine.”</p><p>With nothing else to say, Tetsurou gets back on his feet, snagging his phone from the armrest of the couch. “Bedroom’s this way.” He says, turning off the living room light as they enter the hallway.</p><p>His bedroom, while not the cleanest room in the house, is devoid of any serious mess since Keiji once had threatened him with castration if Tetsurou ever left food in his room again. Though that was back in their junior year of <em>undergrad</em>, the threat still scares Tetsurou enough to never allow the dirtiness of his room to go beyond a few articles of clothing on the floor and maybe a stack of papers.</p><p>Wordlessly the two of them get into bed, the only guiding light being the flashlight from Tetsurou’s phone. Once the two of them are properly settled under the covers, Tetsurou turns off the light of his phone and sets it on the nightstand.</p><p>“I won’t ask,” Tetsurou whispers into the darkness, the black offering a sense of comfort. Here, he doesn’t have to look at Kenma’s face. And while a part of him would love to use that excuse to press for answers—answers he believes are within his right to <em>know </em>—he knows that such questions would be futile to ask. If the darkness gave him the courage to speak up, it would give equal courage to Kenma to stay silent. Thankfully, Kenma does not feign sleep, the bed shifting as Kenma turns towards him. “I won’t ask the details. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”</p><p>“Okay,” Kenma replies, voice equally as soft. There is nothing said for a moment, and Tetsurou believes the other man to have fallen asleep before Kenma speaks up again. “And, I’m sorry. I left…I disappeared again. I’m sorry.”</p><p>The darkness envelops the two of them once more, the black pressing against Tetsurou’s eyelids as he stares up towards the ceiling.</p><p>This time, he does not tell Kenma it’s okay.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Content Warnings:  the aftermath of rape, rape mentions, the injures associated with rape, the treatment of said injuries, slightly graphic depiction of putting a shoulder back into place<br/>///</p><p>Hope yall enjoyed~ </p><p>I've (personally) noticed this may or may not be ooc, and then i realized i do not care bc in no canon does kuroo become a writer and kenma isn't a stripper and so basically I'm using the character traits i enjoy and molding them how i want so that's cool! That being said i do try to keep them as 'in character' as possible but that isn't easy when you're dealing with the aftermath of non-con and the fears of not being good enough. Oh well!</p><p>See yall October 22th with chapter 6! Hope yall doing well~</p><p><a href="https://twitter.com/mutsukx">twitter</a> // <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1i5dOq5DsBVOUJVj21jKgM?si=g7xuPXsmS7q_XWOy37LQ7w">fic playlist</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. worship</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tetsurou did not think this would be what Kenma asked of him, and for a horrifying moment, Tetsurou wonders what would happen if he said no.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yes yes, the fic name changed back to What Would You Do, previously it was 'were we always meant to say goodbye?' which was so much harder to type out and looked dumb as fuck when i tried to shorten it (wwamtsg). so I will be calling it wwyd like i did in high school. Ahhh, my roots. </p><p>chapter title taken from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zjKDzsD5jVo&amp;ab_channel=Years%26Years">worship</a><br/>by years and years</p><p>Anyways, here is chapter six! I hope you enjoy it! If you see a typo lemme know, sometimes two people and Gr*mmarly do not catch everything</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There is something Tetsurou wants to say about waking up in the same position he fell asleep in, but with his sleep-addled brain, he can only think to call it <em>odd</em>. See, usually he wakes up with his head shoved between the copious pillows on his bed—or worse, under—to avoid the sound of his alarms. But on <em>this </em>fine morning, Tetsurou blinks his eyes open to stare at the same ceiling he had the night before.</p><p>He’s not surprised as to <em>why </em>he’s woken up in the same position, even half-asleep Tetsurou can feel the heat radiating off Kenma in gentle waves. In fact—Tetsurou turns his head to ensure he’s not dreaming this up—Kenma’s the one to have moved during the night, though the only evidence of this is the way pale fingers are curled against the skin of Tetsurou’s half-open palm. It’s as if Kenma had wanted to reach out to hold Tetsurou’s hand in the night, only to fall back to sleep before he could fully complete the action.</p><p>The sight is not unfamiliar to Tetsurou, though now he would consider it a <em> rare </em>sight due to the length of time that has passed between the days where he was fifteen years old and <em>now</em>. But, he remembers, Kenma always slept like this with him. Just the barest hint that he needed Tetsurou there, just a touch of skin to remind Kenma that his friend was with him—that he was safe.</p><p>But that…that was sixteen years ago. A lifetime ago if Tetsurou really had to think about it. So while Tetsurou isn’t a stranger to the ways Kenma used to seek out touch during the night, it was odd to be privy to such an occurrence, so many years later. The sight of those slender fingers, curled so delicately in the palm of Tetsurou’s hand is almost touching to bring tears to Tetsurou’s eyes.</p><p>Almost enough to make him think that maybe—<em> maybe— </em>Kenma still thought about him. That maybe Kenma missed him as much as Tetsurou did during these years apart.</p><p>They are thoughts Tetsurou knows he should not have. Thoughts that used to keep him up at night during the first few years of Kenma’s absence. Thoughts that he knows he will never have answers to.</p><p>But.</p><p>Seeing this: the calm early morning sun lighting the room in pale hues, the steady rise and fall of Kenma’s chest, covered in a t-shirt Tetsurou hadn’t worn in months, a bandaged wrist just outside of Tetsurou’s touch—it makes him think.</p><p>Because he knows, they aren’t the same as they were the last time they had the peace of mind to lie together like this. They aren’t sixteen and fourteen—laughing over video games late into the night until they pass out in a haphazard pile on the couch, waking to the gentle scolding of Tetsurou’s mother. Tetsurou was not the same boy who got to lay with Kenma on the floor in the middle of summer, shirtless and sticky with sweat.</p><p>They were no longer Tetsurou and Kenma, the package deal. They were different, broken by the events of their past. Whether that made them stronger or not, Tetsurou does not know. He knows that he’s never stopped wishing for Kenma to come back to him, never stopped hoping that one day he could apologize.</p><p>He should have done better. He should have trusted Kenma more.</p><p>Kenma should have trusted <em>him </em>more.</p><p>Yet, by the grace of a god Tetsurou does not believe in, Tetsurou has <em>this</em>. This stillness only early mornings can offer, this weight of Kenma’s trust held in the palm of Tetsurou’s hand. Tetsurou has this, if only for a fleeting moment.</p><p>So, he will take it, take in the gentle but ethereal beauty that is Kenma and tuck it away in the deepest parts of his heart.</p><p>For history has a way of repeating itself, and Tetsurou is counting down the days when these very fingertips slip from his grasp for the last time.</p><p>Tetsurou’s distracted by his thoughts when Kenma lets out a quiet snuffle, his head turning further into the pillow. Though Tetsurou cannot see it—not with the way his gaze is focused on bitten lips parted in a silent plea—he can feel the way Kenma’s hand shifts in his palm, fingers slotting loosely in the spaces between Tetsurou’s fingers.</p><p>Before he can question his actions, Tetsurou curls his fingers in an imitation of a handhold, heart thudding hard in his chest when his fingertips brush against Kenma’s skin. Tearing his eyes away from Kenma’s face, Tetsurou glances down and their now joined hands, marveling at the soft, unmarred skin under his fingers.</p><p>Beautiful is the only word he can think to describe this man next to him. How lucky Tetsurou is, to have seen the ways Kenma had changed over the years. How <em>lucky </em> Tetsurou is to lie here next to him, to hold Kenma’s hand.</p><p>How <em>lucky</em>.</p><p>Although Tetsurou has no recollection of falling back asleep, the next time he’s brought to awareness it’s to the gentle press of fingers against the inside of his wrist. For a moment, Tetsurou keeps his eyes closed, letting Kenma slowly trail his fingertips from Tetsurou’s wrist to the middle of his palm, tracing haphazard patterns against his skin.</p><p>Content to let Kenma do as he pleases, Tetsurou contemplates drifting back to sleep, soothed by feather-light touches.</p><p><em> Thank you</em>.</p><p>Tetsurou almost blinks his eyes open at the words, unsure if they were from the hazy depths of his mind—a replay of the multitude of times Kenma had erroneously thanked him—but the firm press of calloused fingertips slowly spelling out the phrase solidifies that Kenma had in fact spoken the words.</p><p>Hoping not to startle the man next to him, Tetsurou blinks his eyes open, taking in the much brighter sunlight filtering through his curtains. Before him sits an angel—golden hair tumbling in waves to rest peacefully against the dip of his collarbone. Before him, an angel tilts his head towards the sky in prayer, the light catching the tears on his cheeks. Before him, an angel cries.</p><p>And yet, Tetsurou can do nothing but watch, eyes blearily tracking the tears that spill from Kenma’s eyes, following their journey down his cheeks and along the curve of his jaw. Their journey ends with the steady drip off Kenma’s chin, the descent marking their death as each tear gets absorbed into the sheets below.</p><p>“Kenma?” Tetsurou asks, voice rough with sleep. He gives a slow blink, struggling to separate the reality from the hazy dreamworld just inches from his grasp. “You ‘kay?”</p><p>He hears the sniff, watches as Kenma wipes at his eyes, smearing tears across his cheeks. “Yeah,” Kenma whispers, meeting Tetsurou’s gaze. His eyes are red-rimmed yet hold none of the fear they did in the hours before they slept.</p><p>“Good morning.” Tetsurou offers a small smile, heart aching as fresh tears fall from Kenma’s eyes. “No, no. Please, don’t cry.” He struggles to sit up, legs kicking harshly at the sheets tangled around him. Carefully Tetsurou cups the back of Kenma’s head, fingers threading through sleep mussed hair, his other hand gently wiping the escaped tears trying to make their way down Kenma’s reddening skin. “Don’t cry, you’re okay.”</p><p>Tetsurou takes to counting the time in the moments between the broken sobs ripped from Kenma’s throat. Counts the seconds in the way his thumb brushes hot tears across flushed cheeks. Selfishly, he revels in the warmth, in the way bitten fingers curl around Tetsurou’s wrists, holding tight through the storm of tears.</p><p>To tell the truth, Tetsurou is not sure of the amount of time that passes, fingers threading through Kenma’s hair soothingly he sobs into the fabric of Tetsurou’s nightshirt. He’s unsure of the cause of these tears, unsure if the words spilling from Kenma’s mouth have any bearing. But Tetsurou says nothing, offering his comfort in the form of warm hands.</p><p>Nevertheless, Kenma does raise his head, breaking away from the loose hold Tetsurou had wrapped around him. “Sorry,” he confesses, eyes downcast. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”</p><p>Curling a finger under Kenma’s chin, Tetsurou raises his head until the man meets his eyes. This time when Tetsurou offers a smile, Kenma returns it.</p><p>For a moment, he wonders.</p><p>“S’okay.” Confident that Kenma wasn’t going to start crying again, Tetsurou turns around and grabs his phone from the nightstand. The screen wakes at his touch, showing countless missed calls from both Koutarou and Keiji. Underneath all of them, Tetsurou spies a single missed call from Wakatoshi. Careful not to let the unease show on his face, Tetsurou types a quick message to Keiji to call him in a few minutes before turning his attention back to Kenma. “Gonna make coffee…and breakfast.” </p><p>The words seem to shock Kenma, his puffy eyes widening in surprise. “You don’t have to…”  Tetsurou ignores the statement as he slides off the bed. He mourns the loss of his socks lost somewhere in the heap of sheets on his bed, knowing that the moment he steps into the tiled kitchen floor his feet were going to freeze. “I’m not that hungry.”</p><p>In his hand, Tetsurou’s phone lights up with a text from Keiji—a singular angry emoji—and Tetsurou guesses he has another minute or two before Keiji calls him. He could <em>not </em>be in this room when that happens, and while vanishing to the kitchen wasn’t as far as Tetsurou would like to be from Kenma to deal with Keiji’s ire, he was just going to have to make do. “You should eat,” he says to Kenma, flicking his gaze up to roam over Kenma’s slight figure. “I’ll just make something light, like hash browns and eggs, yeah? You can go back to bed, I’ll come get you.” Tetsurou waits for Kenma’s nod, watching as the man runs a hand through his hair, golden strands falling against his neck like handspun sunlight.</p><p>In the end, Tetsurou barely makes it to the kitchen before Keiji’s name appears across the screen of his phone. Guilt simmers in Tetsurou’s gut as he answers the call. “Hi,” he answers sheepishly.</p><p><em> “Tetsurou,” </em> Keiji scolds in lieu of a greeting, scathing tone audible over the line. <em> “What the fuck were you thinking?” </em></p><p>Deflating against the counter, Tetsurou runs his free hand through his hair, pulling lightly at the sleep mussed tangles. “Listen,” he defends himself, trying to keep his voice down. “Something happened last night, so I’m <em>sorry </em> I didn’t think to text you or Wakatoshi. I had more urgent matters to deal with.” Tetsurou stops himself from saying Kenma’s name, eyes glancing towards the hallway.</p><p>He heaves a sigh as he pushes off the counter, opening the freezer to pull out the hash browns he knows are buried somewhere in the depths. On the line, Tetsurou can hear Keiji typing away, the rhythmic clicks harsher than normal in his friend’s anger.</p><p><em> “Kenma?” </em> Keiji says, at last, voice smoothing into something akin to his usual cold tone. <em> “He returned?” </em></p><p>Tetsurou only answers with a hum, nudging the hash browns in the pan with a wooden spoon, phone cradled between his shoulder and ear. “I overslept but I’ll make up for it tomorrow.” Casually Tetsurou flips the hash browns over and shoves them to the side of the pan, his free hand cracking an egg to pour into the spaces left behind. “Chikara gave me a break—finally—from all those podcast guesting shit.”</p><p><em> “Is he okay?” </em> Keiji asks, genuine concern coloring his words. Tetsurou mouths the phrase silently back to himself mockingly, miffed that while Keiji had no problem yelling at him, the mere mention of Kenma was enough to make his friend concerned.</p><p>Which, Tetsurou guesses, scrambling the eggs with ease, is the point of bringing Kenma up in the place.</p><p>
  <em> “I can only save you so many times from Wakatoshi, Tetsurou. Do not make me do this again.” </em>
</p><p>“I’ll do my best, Keiji,” Tetsurou grumbles. It’s not like he can pencil in emergencies, although he does hope that an emergency of this caliber does not repeat itself. Tetsurou can only deal with so much panic coursing through his body and last night was enough for at <em>least </em>the next year. “I gotta go now, making breakfast. Text me later, okay?”</p><p><em> “Tetsu—” </em> Without waiting for what would certainly be another reprimand, Tetsurou ends the call, tossing his phone carelessly onto the counter.</p><p>Now with no Keiji seething harsh words into his ear, the rest of Tetsurou’s morning routine goes by without another distraction. With the rusty skills reminiscent of Tetsurou’s barista days, he manages to bring both the plates of food and coffee mugs over to the coffee table. Although one of the plates is a near miss, Tetsurou manages to place all four dishes onto the table without any casualties.</p><p>“Kenma?” Tetsurou calls, bare feet padding silently down the hallway. Poking his head into his bedroom, Tetsurou finds Kenma curled in the middle of the bed, fingers tangled in his hair. “Kenma?” Fully stepping into the room, Tetsurou walks towards the edge of the bed, his brow furrowed as he watches Kenma’s hand uncurl from his hair to press firmly against his ears.</p><p>Tentatively, Tetsurou reaches out to touch the man but stops himself at the last second. Instead, he presses his palm against the mattress, causing the bed to dip under his weight.</p><p>Kenma’s head snaps up, a harsh gasp echoing in the room. With wild eyes, he stares unblinkingly at Tetsurou, shoulders heaving with ragged breaths.</p><p>Slowly Tetsurou climbs back onto the bed, lifting his hand to brush his fingertips along the back of Kenma’s hand. “Hey,” he says softly, trying to keep his mounting panic out of his voice. “You’re safe.”</p><p>In stuttered steps, Tetsurou watches as Kenma comes back to him, slowly moving his hand from Kenma’s to thread through his hair.</p><p><em> Come back to me</em>, he pleas silently, sitting cross-legged in front of the same man that comforted Tetsurou when they were children. He realizes then that maybe the trust he wants Kenma to give him so badly would be misplaced in his hands.</p><p>He realizes then, that maybe letting Kenma slip from his grasp would be for the best. For both of them.</p><p>But.</p><p>Tetsurou sees those golden eyes clear, sees the exact moment that Kenma returns from the depths of his mind. Though no tears spill from his eyes, the relief that floods Kenma’s body is palpable.</p><p>“Hey,” Tetsurou repeats, forcing a smile to his face. “You good?”</p><p>Mutely, Kenma nods, reaching forward to twine his finger with Tetsurou’s, grip tight. Grounding, Tetsurou assumes.</p><p>“I’m here,” Tetsurou promises anyway, squeezing Kenma’s hand. “And I made breakfast. Let’s go eat, okay, Kenma?”</p><p>Kenma gives a tiny nod, delicately getting off the bed, his hand gripping Tetsurou’s with a force that betrays the fear that he still must be feeling.  </p><p>Neither of them offers any words—of explanation nor comfort—while they eat, the silence only broken by the quiet sips of coffee and the clang of silverware against ceramic plates. An apology presses itself against Tetsurou’s sternum, steadily clawing its way up his throat until he feels like he’s to gag on the words. Unwilling to let the words escape from between his teeth, Tetsurou finishes off his coffee with a few large gulps, ignoring the burn that laves across his tongue with each swallow. “Still hungry?” he asks, motioning at Kenma’s emptied plate.</p><p>“No, thank you.” Kenma pairs the words with a shake of his head, hair still loose against his shoulders. Tetsurou itches to run his fingers through the strands once more and gathers their plates in an effort to distract himself from the urge, his hand slipping from Kenma’s loose grip.</p><p>“Can I ask you a favor?” Kenma asks as Tetsurou rises from the couch. Confused, Tetsurou only inclines his head in an answer. Kenma seems to think his words over now that he has Tetsurou’s attention, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Can you…can you shower with me?”</p><p>Tetsurou watches as Kenma’s eyes dart around the room, landing on the white of his bandages. “Um…” he says eloquently.</p><p>“It’s okay if you don’t,” Kenma assures, glancing up to meet Tetsurou’s bewildered stare. “I just—I can…I can still…I feel dirty.” Kenma finishes.</p><p>Even though Tetsurou can guess what Kenma wanted to say, he does not comment on the matter, shifting his stance to better balance the plates stacked in his hand. “Alright,” he says simply, hoping his voice sounds as nonchalant as he’s trying to make it. “I’ll meet you in the bathroom after I put the dishes in the sink, I guess? And I’ll get another pair of clothes.”</p><p>“I—ok.” Kenma looks as if he’s going to say something more, but in the end decides against it. </p><p>With another nod, Tetsurou shuffles away, his toe smashing against a wall corner. As a litany of curses flits through his mind, Tetsurou hobbles to the sink, the dishes tumbling inside with a cacophonous clatter. He hurries towards his room, spying Kenma sitting on the closed toilet seat through the open bathroom door. When Tetsurou returns from the bedroom with a pair of shorts he found shoved in the corner of a drawer, he finds Kenma gingerly peeling his borrowed t-shirt off his body with careful movements.</p><p>The bruises look darker than they had the night prior and though Tetsurou knows this is a <em> good </em>thing, seeing the marks against Kenma’s pale skin makes him nauseous all over again. Setting the pair of shorts on the sink counter, Tetsurou squeezes himself between Kenma and the tub, sliding open the shower door to turn the water on. By the time he shimmies his way awkwardly out of the tiny space, leg brushing against Kenma’s for just a moment, he notices that Kenma is focused on his wrists, one hand slowly unraveling the nonstick gauze Tetsurou had wrapped around him the night before.</p><p>“Oh,” Tetsurou says dumbly, blinking a few times at the sight in front of him. “I was going to ask if you wanted me to do that.”</p><p>“Mm, it’s fine.” Tetsurou watches as the used gauze falls from between Kenma’s fingers, pooling in a white pile against the grey tile. He notices then, that while Kenma seems to have no problems unwrapping the medical tape and gauze from his skin, his eyes do not focus on the wounds.</p><p>With his offer of help dismissed, Tetsurou pulls his sleep shirt from over his head, draping it across the bathroom counter. Turning his attention back to Kenma, he meets piercing golden eyes, their gaze oddly probing.</p><p>Tetsurou wonders what Kenma looks for in these moments, what he hopes to find, or what he believes will lie in Tetsurou’s expressions. It’s a test that he does not know the answers to, a test that Tetsurou had not studied in almost twenty years, the material updated with information he is no longer privy to. As he stares back, Tetsurou thinks that maybe—maybe—Kenma is looking for the weakness that Tetsurou held on his face at sixteen.</p><p>If that’s the case, Tetsurou mentally laughs, tugging off his sweats so that he stands in the bathroom, clad in only his boxers, then Kenma will find nothing. He had learned sixteen years ago, weakness in the face of adversity would only lead to loss.</p><p>At thirty-three, Tetsurou takes pride in the way he can mask his emotions. He learned from the best, after all.</p><p>Kenma blinks once, flicking his gaze away to stare at the wall for a time. His tongue darts out to lick at cracked lips, a deep breath expanding his chest. Before Tetsurou can even think to offer his assistance, Kenma pushes himself to his feet, face scrunching in displeasure almost lost in the impassive mask that shutters Kenma’s expression.</p><p>This time when Kenma stares at him, it’s pointed in a way Tetsurou can finally understand. Wordlessly, he comes forward, stepping through the few feet of distance to curl one of his hands around Kenma’s hip. As Tetsurou moves to kneel, Kenma’s hand shoots out, pressing flat against Tetsurou’s bare chest.</p><p>“No.” Kenma says firmly, hand sliding down Tetsurou’s chest a few inches before it drops away entirely. “Just stand there. I need support, I can do it myself.”</p><p>Saying nothing, Tetsurou offers only a nod, letting Kenma struggle his way through removing the shorts Tetsurou had lent him to sleep in, stumbling as he tries to step out of him. Tetsurou steadies him by adding his other hand to Kenma’s waist, steadying him with nothing more than a low hum.</p><p>Though he knows that not even twelve hours before, Tetsurou was palming Kenma’s thighs, fingers roaming over the skin that Tetsurou would liken to wine-stained sheets, he is also wise enough to know that there is something so much more intimate about Kenma being bare before him.</p><p>“You can get in first,” Tetsurou comments as he steps back, hands falling from slim hips, thumbs brushing over the jut of Kenma’s pelvic bone.</p><p>And, though he <em>knows </em>that showering with Kenma will require Tetsurou to be up close and personal with the most intimate parts of his former friend’s body, Tetsurou doesn’t think he is ready for <em>this</em>.</p><p>For the marks that lie pressed against pale flesh, a palette of dark reds and dark purples, mixing against ivory. It’s disgusting, Tetsurou thinks, stepping so that he can place his palms flat on the bathroom counter, staring at his reflection blurred by the steam circulating the room.</p><p>He needs to get a grip, he knows this. But knowledge and action are not the same things. But, he had told Kenma to trust him, and before that, he had told <em>himself </em>that he would be there for Kenma. He would be steady. Would hold fast when Kenma stumbled.</p><p>Seeing him <em>naked </em>is not going to be what does Tetsurou in, it <em>can’t </em>be. Who is he then, if he is to ask for Kenma’s trust, only to step back when it gets too much for him? Once before, a thought similar had crossed his mind, had bounced around in his brain for days and nights on end. And by the time he had made a decision, it was too late.</p><p>This time, Tetsurou cannot afford to make the same mistakes he did in his youth.</p><p>Shoving his boxers off his hips, Tetsurou slides open the steamed over glass door. As he steps into the tub, Tetsurou’s vision immediately fills with the sight of Kenma pushing his hair back, soaked strands clinging to his face.</p><p>Something warm unfurls in Tetsurou’s gut, his gaze glued to the way Kenma blinks water from his lashes. It makes him feel <em>something</em>, but Tetsurou pushes the feeling to the back of his mind.</p><p>There would be a time and place to dissect the way Kenma makes him feel but now was <em>not </em>that time.</p><p>With only a few words spoken between them, Tetsurou takes great care in washing Kenma’s body, rubbing the loofah across his skin in gentle motions, one section at a time. As Tetsurou moves from Kenma’s arms to his chest, Tetsurou feels the tips of Kenma’s finger trail along his wet chest, creating nonsensical patterns across Tetsurou’s skin.</p><p>A shiver works its way up Tetsurou’s spine, nearly causing him to drop the loofah in his hand. “Rinse.” Tetsurou’s free hand presses lightly at Kenma’s good shoulder, stepping back to let Kenma rinse the soap suds clinging to his skin.</p><p>From here, Tetsurou can see a single crimson mark just above Kenma’s right asscheek, and though Tetsurou opts to ignore it, the imagery slots itself into his brain even after he tears his gaze away. In an effort to keep his eyes from being drawn back to the singular mark, Tetsurou warns Kenma he’s going to wash his back, carefully running the soapy loofa across the bruises and bitemarks scattered across the expanse of Kenma’s back. Still, it is not enough to keep his eyes from glancing down to stare at that singular crimson mark, his free hand itching to thumb over the spot.</p><p>By the time Kenma turns back around, blond locks sticking to his cheeks, Tetsurou is contemplating pressing his forehead against the tiled wall next to him. Quickly, he pastes a small smile across his lips.</p><p>He feels no better than the monster that laid hands on Kenma and wishes he could take back his promise.</p><p>Kenma is right not to trust him, Tetsurou was not strong enough in the past, and he is not strong enough <em>now</em>. Kenma’s trust would only be crushed in his hands, would only drip from between clumsily clenched fists until there was nothing left to hold.</p><p>“People pay lots to see me naked,” Kenma says, deadpan. The words jolt Tetsurou in place, his foot slipping along the bottom of the tub. “And yet, you see it for free.”</p><p>Tetsurou is startled enough to laugh, tipping his head back as he does so. It’s enough to shake the doubts and worries from his mind, enough for Tetsurou to look Kenma in the eye and not think of the shadows that pressed these wounds to his skin, enough to not replace it with himself.</p><p>“Okay, okay,” Tetsurou gets out between huffs of laughter. He can see the way Kenma’s eyes light up, his lips pulling into the smallest of smiles as Tetsurou continues to laugh to himself. “How did you want me to wash your legs?”</p><p>Amusement washes away from Kenma’s face like oil sliding off water, a pensive look crossing his face for a moment. “I didn’t think of that,” he mutters, falling silent.</p><p>Tetsurou says nothing more, taking Kenma’s silence as an opportunity to pour more body wash onto the loofa, quickly scrubbing down his arms and chest.</p><p>“Before that, though…” Kenma speaks up again, looking up just as Tetsurou reaches his arm back to scrub at his back. “Inside too.”</p><p>Tetsurou says nothing, his face slowly morphing from confusion to horror. Kenma stares back, eyes alight with defiance, almost begging Tetsurou to say no.</p><p>“Inside?” Tetsurou squeaks, lowering his arms, loofa hanging limply around his wrist. “<em> Inside </em>?”</p><p>Chin tilting up, Kenma’s eyes narrow. “You said I could trust you, last night. Did you mean it?”</p><p><em> No</em>, Tetsurou wants to shout. Wants to remove himself from this situation, wants to deal with anything but this.</p><p>Years, Tetsurou realizes—<em> years </em>he had spent doubting the actions he made at sixteen. Years he had spent telling himself that Kenma should have trusted him with more information, that Tetsurou could have helped him.</p><p>But now, feeling the weight of just a <em> fraction </em>of the very trust he spent half his life wishing he had gotten, Tetsurou realizes that he does not know if he can hold onto this trust.</p><p>As Tetsurou stares down at a man that had dealt with misplaced trust more times than Tetsurou can count, he wonders.</p><p>If this was Kenma’s way of saying sorry. If this was what he wishes he could have done all those years ago.</p><p>Now, though he does not think himself ready, Tetsurou knows.</p><p>“I meant it,” he says firmly, watching the satisfied smile that spreads across Kenma’s face.</p><p>It makes Tetsurou <em>wonder</em>, fingers twitching at his sides. It makes him <em>ache</em>. </p><p>The smile doesn’t last long, twisting into something a little more defeated, a little more raw. “Okay…okay…” Kenma inhales as if he’s steeling himself for the next words out of his mouth, but instead only lets out a shuddering exhale.</p><p>With shaky fingers, Kenma reaches for Tetsurou’s hand, tugging at it until Tetsurou’s palm settles over the curve of Kenma’s ass, fingers just barely dipping into the space between Kenma’s cheeks. “Inside.” Though the words are spoken softly—barely audible over the rhythmic <em>hiss </em>of the water falling around them—Kenma’s voice still manages to crack on the word.</p><p>And yet. His fingers do not release from where they have curled around Tetsurou’s wrist, his eyes boring into Tetsurou’s.</p><p>And Tetsurou—</p><p>—stands there, taking in the way water drips slowly from Kenma’s lashes, droplets trailing against porcelain skin. He wants to touch it, to wipe the water away like the tears he removed barely an hour ago.</p><p>Slowly, Tetsurou curls his fingers, cupping Kenma’s ass gently as he blinks water from his eyes. “Kenma?” he asks, feeling his brow furrow.</p><p>He knows, he <em>knows</em>. Knows what Kenma is asking of him, knows what he meant by <em> I feel dirty</em>. Tetsurou knows this, but.</p><p>But.</p><p>“Please,” Kenma continues to whisper, grip tightening around Tetsurou’s wrist. His other hand moves up to press against Tetsurou’s chest, palm flat against his skin.</p><p>It hurts, Tetsurou knows this feeling. It <em>hurts </em>knowing this is what Kenma is trusting him with. Hurts knowing that this is something Kenma has to ask of him in the first place.</p><p>“Please,” Kenma repeats, and this time there are tears in his eyes, nose turning pink as Kenma blinks them back. “Tetsurou, <em> please </em>.”</p><p>Tetsurou’s heart stops, thudding painfully in his chest a few times before it begins to beat once more.</p><p><em> Tetsurou, please</em>, his mind echoes. <em> Tetsurou</em>.</p><p>How bittersweet, Tetsurou thinks, staring down at the man not even six inches from him, silent tears trickling down his face. How bittersweet that his name falls from Kenma’s lips in this way. Tetsurou longs for it to be another way, wants to erase his name from Kenma’s mouth. Not like this, he reasons, not like this.</p><p>Not with teary eyes begging him to remove the essence of another man from within him. Not when Tetsurou’s insides feel raw with a mixture of feelings he’s not sure if he’s ready to name.</p><p>Not like this, he needs it to not be like this.</p><p>“Tetsurou,” Kenma begs <em>again</em>, words choking on a sob. “You promised.”</p><p>He did not think this would be what Kenma asked of him, and for a horrifying moment, Tetsurou wonders what would happen if he said no.</p><p>But what is he supposed to say here? Did Kenma think of <em>him </em>when deciding to ask Tetsurou to finger him open, to wash the semen of a man who forced himself upon Kenma until he returned to Tetsurou broken and bleeding to the point where Tetsurou isn’t sure if he can put him back together?</p><p>If he couldn’t do it sixteen years ago, what makes the two of them think that the second time would go any better?</p><p>But he knows. He promised. And there are few things Tetsurou hates more than breaking a promise.</p><p>“I got you,” he ends up saying, words falling heavy from his lips. “I got you.”</p><p>Finally, Kenma’s grip around his wrists relaxes, falling away entirely as Tetsurou brings his other hand around to pull Kenma’s cheeks apart, fingers dipping into the space between them.</p><p>It is like this that Kenma comes apart under Tetsurou’s touch. It is with the gentle slide of Tetsurou’s fingers pressing in that causes Kenma to lay his forehead against Tetsurou’s chest, shoulders shuddering in broken sobs.</p><p>It is like this that Tetsurou sees the fourteen-year-old boy he missed so dearly. The horror that the thought brings drowned out by a startled cry from the man below him.</p><p>Immediately, Tetsurou removes his fingers, ignoring the way the water washes pink down the drain. Some things are better left not mentioned. “Okay?” he asks, bowing his head.</p><p>Around them, the water starts to run cool, but still, Kenma does not move. The sting of nails burrowing into the skin of Tetsurou’s flesh shocks him out of his thoughts, and he blinks back into awareness to find Kenma staring back at him, eyes swollen and face red.</p><p>Although Kenma says nothing, he arches his back into Tetsurou’s palm, a silent demand. Knowing that he is not allowed to stop <em>now</em>, Tetsurou slips two fingers back inside Kenma, feeling him clamp down around him.</p><p>Watches, silent, as Kenma’s mouth parts in a breathless gasp, a sob hiccupping out his mouth seconds later.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Tetsurou murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”</p><p>It is like this, that Tetsurou experiences his second heartbreak.</p><p>It is like this, Tetsurou concludes, that Kenma—</p><p>—may be broken in ways Tetsurou cannot repair.  </p><hr/><p>Later, Tetsurou will ask himself why he didn’t tug Kenma closer to him, why he didn’t tuck the man against his side as the silence enveloped the two of them. Later, Tetsurou will wonder why he didn’t notice the way Kenma rubbed at his arms, bitten fingernails turning pale skin to pink.</p><p>Later, Tetsurou will regret many things, but for now, he knows none of these things.</p><p>Which is why he lets Kenma sit on the opposite end of the couch, tapping away at Tetsurou’s phone after asking if he could look up directions back to his apartment. In the present, Tetsurou sits cross-legged on the couch, laptop perched on his thighs as he types away at the few emails he can answer from his laptop, if for no other reason than to appease Keiji’s and Wakatoshi’s understandable ire when he returns to the office tomorrow morning.</p><p>Neither of them makes any moves to break the silence around them, neither of them mentioning the way Kenma fell apart against Tetsurou’s touch, somehow both the most intimate and most heartbreaking thing Tetsurou had ever borne witness to.</p><p>Neither of them mentions the way Tetsurou had sat in the cold spray of the shower, gently soaping down Kenma’s legs as the other man had pressed his forehead against the glass door, sobs shaking his body so harshly that Tetsurou had been worried Kenma was going to slip. They don’t talk about how Kenma had grown erect as Tetsurou fingered him open, despite the way he also had repeatedly asked Tetsurou between cries and breathy moans if he was done yet.</p><p>Instead, Tetsurou hits send on yet another email, refreshing his inbox to show no new messages to reply to. “How’s your shoulder?” he asks, breaking the quiet between him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kenma pause, fingers freezing on the screen of Tetsurou’s phone.</p><p>“Fine,” Kenma replies. “Sore, but I can move it, so—fine.”</p><p>Tetsurou hums, tapping his fingers against his mousepad a few times, unwilling to let the silence settle over them once again. “I would suggest not moving it too much for the next few days—weeks if you can get away with that.”</p><p>“Okay…” Tetsurou doesn’t miss the twist in Kenma’s expression, though it is gone before he can even think of putting a name to it. “Thank you, again.”</p><p>At this, Tetsurou fully turns to face him, lips parting to <em>again </em>tell Kenma that thanks are not needed. Any decent human would have helped Kenma last night, any decent <em>friend </em>wouldn’t have struggled to help him in the shower as Tetsurou had.</p><p>He was undeserving of Kenma’s thanks, unworthy of the trust in his hands. Tetsurou knew this, but did Kenma?</p><p>However, Tetsurou does not get the chance to tell Kenma these things, does not get to tell him that his trust would be better put to use somewhere else. “Thank you,” Kenma says again, firmer this time. “For last night, and today. I…I didn’t—”</p><p>“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Tetsurou stresses, cutting Kenma off. “I don’t need to know the details of what happened to you, or why you were gone for three months, or any of that. I’m—I’m glad you’re safe now, that you…that you came back.” The unspoken <em>that you came back to me </em>lingers heavily in the air, but similar to the way they don’t mention the shower, Kenma does not mention the weight of Tetsurou’s words.</p><p>Before him, Kenma looks as if he’s trying to figure out a way to say <em>thank you </em>without uttering the words, his face screwing up in concentration, bottom lip disappearing into his mouth. Tetsurou finds it endearing, a small smile tugging at his lips.</p><p>“I just think it would be fair,” Kenma tries to reason, glancing down at Tetsurou’s phone that has long gone dark.</p><p>“It’s not.” How does he articulate that he’s just thankful Kenma came back, to him of all people? How does he say that he couldn’t bear the thought of losing him again after having Kenma in his grip—no matter how loosely—for the past year. “Just…tell me this okay? Are you safe now? After all of this, are you safe?”</p><p>Kenma seems to seriously ponder the words, his head tipping back until it meets the back of the couch. “I don’t know,” he confesses after a time. “He knows where I work, I’ll see him again. But…”</p><p>In his mind’s eye, Tetsurou imagines Kenma coming home from work, eyes drooping and muscles sore. Sees a shapeless figure hopping from shadow to shadow, growing longer as they absorb the darkness surrounding them. Sees Kenma, pinned down, maybe in a similar fashion as he had been previously, his face twisted as he cries for help.</p><p>Tetsurou can’t let these things happen, he <em>can’t</em>. “Stay with me.” The words slip from his mouth before he can even think of them, but he knows that this…</p><p>This is something he wants. To hold Kenma a little closer, a little longer. As long as he can, as long as Kenma will let him.</p><p>However, Kenma wants him, Tetsurou will mold himself to his needs. Whatever it takes, whatever the cost.</p><p>A shrill alarm sounds from Tetsurou’s phone just as Kenma’s lips part in reply. Quickly the man silences the sound, wide eyes never leaving Tetsurou’s face.</p><p>“Stay with me,” Tetsurou repeats, calmer now. “You’ll…you’d be safe here.”</p><p>“Oh,” Kenma replies, hands raising to press fingertips against cheeks slowly pinkening. “Oh—I…”</p><p>Now, Tetsurou doesn’t consider himself to be a weak man, though he has on multiple occasions let Keiji run rampant on their triad friend dinners, but there is something about Kenma.</p><p>About the way golden eyes spark with hope, the pinkish hue covering his cheeks and nose. About how a raw bitten thumb pushes between his lips, teeth tearing at the skin.</p><p>“I promised,” Tetsurou pushes, shifting his laptop to the coffee table to turn his whole body towards Kenma. “I promised you could trust me. I’ll do my best, to keep you safe here.” <em> From anything, from everything</em>, Tetsurou doesn’t voice.</p><p>This time when Tetsurou’s phone rings in alarm, Kenma is slower to turn it off, fingers hovering over the screen for a second longer than needed before swiping the alarm away.</p><p>“Okay,” he says again, looking up to meet Tetsurou’s desperate gaze. “I have to go now…but…I’ll come back.” The <em>thank you </em>goes unsaid but is heard all the same.</p><p>Tetsurou can only offer what he hopes is a comforting smile, heart filling with equal parts adoration and concern.</p><p>Later, not long after Kenma has left with Tetsurou’s spare key, door locking behind him, Tetsurou will continue to sit on the couch, his mind replaying Kenma’s parting words.</p><p>
  <em> I don’t know what I would have done without you. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>and with this, we wrap up Year One in wwyd! In the fic, not the posting schedule lol. But congrats to Tetsurou and Kenma for making it twelve months without physically coming to blows, and congrats to keiji and koutarou for being really good friends. </p><p>I wanna take this time to tell yall thank you for reading this far! I do hope you are enjoying it, and if you do if you wanna leave a kudo or a comment (or both!), I would love that very much! I am a college junior (2nd semester), and currently ripping my time between my 6-week university courses, scholarships for studying abroad in seoul in the spring, and writing this fanfic. It would mean SO MUCH if you tell me what you like about the fic! Or any grievances about the characters (pls, i wanna beat tetsurou every time i write, it's fine u can complain too) </p><p>Now, for the posting schedule. Chapter 7 is a filler chapter--we get kid kuroken!--and that will go live on November 11th (or 12th). After that we enter Year Two. Because the first 'act' will be completed before the holiday season, I am going to take a break for my studies and holidays, and will return on Dec 31st (or Jan 7th, if I'm drunk on the 31st).</p><p>Below is a fic playlist where I am slowly organizing the songs as I use them for chapter titles, and don't forget to follow my twitter for more wwyd updates! See you Nov 11th!</p><p><a href="https://twitter.com/mutsukx">twitter</a> // <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1i5dOq5DsBVOUJVj21jKgM?si=g7xuPXsmS7q_XWOy37LQ7w">fic playlist</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. childhood's end</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ah, Tetsurou thinks as he wipes away the lone tear that escapes from Kenma’s watery eyes. I would do anything for him.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yes, yes I am a day late, i am SORRY! Truth be told i am (was? who knows) sick and had to get a test done and then i was binging a tv show and now I'm staring at my homework that i haven't done since LAST WEEK as it will do itself. but!!! </p><p>HELLO WELCOME TO THE END! HOPE YOU HAD FUN! End of Part 1, that is. Act 1? Year 1 is what i call it in my notes, lol. Since this fic covers about....four years of kuroken's (present) relationship, this 7th chapter is just pieces of their childhood. </p><p>Nothing insanely graphic in here if you got through chapter 6 you can get thru this except this time its the ADDED BONUS of kenma being a child. Yes. nothing is explicit--similar to chapter six--but you do see the aftermath.</p><p>I'm apologizing ahead of time, ok. I am so sorry for this chapter but it was...interesting and different to write!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Today, Tetsurou thinks as apple-sticky fingers press against the side of his mouth, is going to be a good day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows this for two reasons:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One. Tetsurou somehow managed to wake before both his mom and dad, allowing him to crawl between them. His mom, barely awake and still sleep warm, curled Tetsurou against her chest while his father—woken by Tetsurou’s struggles to get under the sheets—threaded a rough hand through Tetsurou’s bedhead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou loves mornings like these. Mornings where his mama doesn’t have to wake him up for school—and he loves school, it’s fine—and his dad doesn’t rush out of the house before Tetsurou has been roused from sleep. He loves mornings where his parents shower him in love, where his chest is warm with happiness and contentment as he basks in the warmth that is his parents' overwhelming love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And while Tetsurou loves his mom, loves the way she struggles with his unruly hair in the mornings or the way she hums under her breath as she makes breakfast; and while Tetsurou adores when his father picks him up from school, the smooth cadence of his Japanese so different from the stilted answers that fall from Tetsurou’s lips… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While he loves them and knows that they love him back… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tetsu!” a high voice coos from next to Tetsurou. He turns his head just in time for an apple slice to be pressed against his lips. “Apple.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two. Reason number two that Tetsurou knows for a </span>
  <em>
    <span>fact </span>
  </em>
  <span>that today is going to be a good day sits next to him, happily chewing on apple slices that Tetsurou’s mother had given him just so he would stop asking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou opens his mouth against the growing pressure of the apple against his lips, chewing noisily. “No, mouth closed.” Kenma stares up at Tetsurou, a shadow of a pout on his lips. “Mama said, chew with mouth closed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou hums, closing his mouth without further comment, watching as Kenma gives a rather serious nod of his head before turning back to watch the movie playing out on the TV in front of them, the rhythmic sounds of Japanese sounding from the speakers. Tetsurou turns his attention back towards the grainy movie, lips curling in a secret smile as he watches the main character attempt to make pancake while her black cat sits next to her with flour in his fur. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou, wiser at six than he was at five, knows that he loves Kenma. Not in the way he loves his mom and dad, but also not in the way he loves playing on his GameBoy. He loves Kenma in a different way, in a way that makes Tetsurou want to both tease Kenma and also to hold him close. Their moms had likened the two of them to siblings, but Tetsurou doesn’t know if that’s how he loves Kenma. He has friends that have younger brothers or are the younger brother. He sees how they pick on each other before loving each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not like that. It’s not like that. He doesn’t want to pick on Kenma, he doesn’t want to see him cry, or see the pout on his face that can only be followed by the high pitched waver of his words when Tetsurou doesn’t do as he says. Tetsurou can’t bear to see anything other than a smile on Kenma’s pretty little face, can’t bear to see anything other than the happy glint in his best friend’s golden eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou is six years old, and though he knows a lot of things—like how to write his name in Japanese or that Santa isn’t real—he knows that there are no words for the way he loves Kenma.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Tetsurou is rudely awoken when a knee slams into the outer muscle of his thigh. At eight years old, Tetsurou </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> a few words now and spends a solid ten seconds muttering words his mother surely would punish him for saying. But his mom is not within earshot and with a pillow pressed firmly against his face to muffle his words, Tetsurou doesn’t think much about being overheard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry.” Small, warm hands press between Tetsurou’s shoulders, clumsily patting against his spine. “Tetsu…Tetsu, sorry.” The voice, rough with sleep, coughs a few times before nudging Tetsurou again, apologies spilling into the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Irritated at being woken, Tetsurou swats blindly at the arms trying to wake him even </span>
  <em>
    <span>further</span>
  </em>
  <span>, though he knows that at the end of it all he can’t be too annoyed. How could he? Such a thing has happened to him before—a kick to his shin, a knee to his stomach. How could Tetsurou be mad when he knew that it was just a sign of his best friend being comfortable enough to move in his sleep?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kenmaaa,” Tetsurou grumbles, turning his head and peeking an eye open to immediately be met with a worried golden stare. “That hurt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry!” Kenma says again louder and clearer. “I didn’t mean to…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Tetsurou knows that. He’s Kenma’s best friend </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> he knows that. He knows everything about Kenma, from the murky memories of Kenma taking his first steps—backed up by a camcorder video Kenma’s mother is in possession of—to the way Kenma inhales anything apple related just to get his apple fix. Tetsurou </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> Kenma did not mean to slam his knee into Tetsurou’s thigh, knows that Kenma is genuinely sorry about waking Tetsurou up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Tetsurou can feel the heat where Kenma’s knee had made contact, can still feel the dull throbbing that he knows is going to bruise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tetsurou…” Tetsurou blinks back into the present, noticing the wetness clinging to Kenma’s bottom lashes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah, Tetsurou thinks as he scrambles out of the sheets to tackle Kenma back into their nest of sheets and pillows. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks as he ignores the protest of his wounded thigh, opting to focus on calming Kenma down.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Tetsurou thinks as he wipes away the lone tear that escapes from Kenma’s watery eyes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I would do anything for him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s ‘kay,” Tetsurou coos, patting Kenma’s cheek with one hand. “Hurts, but it’s okay, I’ll be okay, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And really, even with the ache in his thigh and the bruise that was sure to be ugly enough for his classmates to notice and </span>
  <em>
    <span>too big</span>
  </em>
  <span> for Tetsurou to pass it off as him falling out of a tree (because falling out of a tall tree would be a cool reason to get a bruise), he couldn’t stay irritated at Kenma.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay?” Tetsurou says again when Kenma continues to stare up at him, eyes still glassy. “I’m not mad, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Kenma replies, voice watery with the tears he’s held back. Tetsurou makes sure to give him a large smile, showing off the missing tooth he had yanked out with a doorknob and some string (not his best moment), before collapsing onto the smaller body under him. “Tetsu!” Kenma squeals, peals of laughter replacing the somber air that had been surrounding the two of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kenma!” Tetsurou manages to wrap his arms around the younger boy—six! Kenma was six now!—and rolls the two of them over so that his best friend is splayed out on top of him. Contrary to Tetsurou’s unmanageable black hair, Kenma’s hair only shares the same shade, the strands feather-light and straight as they curl around Kenma’s jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou pinches a clump of hair between his fingers, tugging gently as he beams up at his best friend. “‘S getting long!” he comments around a yawn. “You gonna cut it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kenma shakes his head, mouth parting open in an answering yawn. He slumps down to press his face into the crook of Tetsurou’s neck, breath hot against Tetsurou’s skin. “Mama likes it,” Kenma says rather than giving a yes or no answer. “Dad hates it though, but mama said it makes me look pretty.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou lets the bit of hair slide from his grasp, his hum barely audible to his own ears. He’s eight, he knows that Kenma is much fonder of his mother than his father, who Tetsurou has only seen on a few chance occasions. Usually, Kenma’s dad doesn’t bother to come to Tetsurou’s house unless Kenma’s mom is with him, but Tetsurou had seen the severe look on his face once when he had come over to play video games with Kenma. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even without glancing at his best friend, Tetsurou knows he looks more like his mother, from the shape of his eyes to the pout of his mouth than his father. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is with these thoughts that Tetsurou hugs Kenma closer to him, a fierce determination to protect Kenma against a force that Tetsurou isn’t sure he entirely understands burning warm in his gut until the early morning light disappears behind heavy eyelids.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>“Open it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are tucked away from the muted laughter of their parents, Kenma’s father sitting in the same chair Tetsurou sat himself at during dinner with just his own parents. Noting the panic in Kenma’s eyes at the sight of his father nursing a glass of brown liquid, Tetsurou had asked his mom if they could go upstairs to Tetsurou’s room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mom, thinking that Tetsurou had been too nervous to give Kenma his present in front of the adults, only waved them off with a smile, her hand curling pleasantly in Tetsurou’s unruly hair before letting the two of them scurry upstairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tetsurou…” Kenma stares at the present in Tetsurou’s hands, the box wrapped in a poor mimicry of the way their parents wrapped Christmas presents. “You didn’t have to…I don’t need…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want to!” Tetsurou all but shouts, stepping forward to thrust the present into Kenma’s space again. When his best friend only continues to stare at the present, tears gathering in golden eyes, Tetsurou tries again. “Please, I wanted to, so please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither of them mentions that an eight-year old’s hands should not shake as hard as Kenma’s do and Tetsurou fights the urge to curl himself around Kenma’s slouching form.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The process of ripping the wrapping paper off of the box Tetsurou spent hours trying to wrap—he even has the papercuts from the wrapping paper to prove it!—seem to pass in the blink of an eye, blue text staring up at Kenma from where the gift lays unwrapped between his fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” is all Kenma manages to get out before he bursts into tears, the choked wails filling Tetsurou’s bedroom. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span> is all Kenma says even as he hugs Tetsurou’s gift tight against his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Tetsurou holds himself not even a foot away from his best friend crying on his bed; holds himself just within Kenma’s reach as he watches fat tears pour down Kenma’s face. It is with a sense of accomplishment that Tetsurou stands before his friend, a sense of doing something </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span>, even if it is at the cost of Kenma’s fragile emotions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you like it?” Tetsurou asks after a while, a sad sort of smile tugging at the corners of his lips as Kenma roughly wipes the tears from his face. “I fought with mama about it, but she agreed to help me buy it for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a single nod, Kenma places the present, wrapping paper still clinging to the bottom of the box, extending his hands towards Tetsurou, who gladly steps into his friend’s embrace, the sharp edges of the GameBoy box pressing into his stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome,” Tetsurou rubs his hands up and down Kenma’s back, rocking the two of them back and forth. “You’re mama would have wanted you to have it, even if it wasn’t from her, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this, Kenma nods again, a snotty sniff sounding loudly in the room. “Yeah,” he warbles, small hands fisting the back of Tetsurou’s shirt. “Yeah, she would.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, long after Kenma has cried himself to sleep pillowed on Tetsurou’s chest, Tetsurou will stare at the hand-painted constellations glowing against the dark of his room. It is here he will realize that Kenma never opened the console’s body, never laid eyes on the game cartridge preloaded into the GameBoy, a small note stuck to the screen in Tetsurou’s familiar messy scrawl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, long after Kenma has fallen asleep with Tetsurou’s hand curled possessively in fine strands of hair, Tetsurou will imagine the look on Kenma’s face when he loads the save Tetsurou made for him a few weeks prior. Tetsurou will remember the conversation he had with the game store employee on how to get a female starter, the hours he spent on his toes as his mother watched on while Tetsurou and the employee restarted the game until a Bulbasaur starter was female.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking down at Kenma, eyes swollen in his sleep, the sound of the adults downstairs seems far away. Here, Tetsurou will look at his best friend and hope that Kenma will enjoy the second part of his gift.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kenma’s mom, forever immortalized in a video game.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Why Kenma’s father moved them out of the home Kenma—and Tetsurou, really—had grown up in, Tetsurou will never understand. Not when those walls had watched both him and Kenma grow, not when those walls still held the phantom touch of Kenma’s mother, still held the gentle humming that filled the house on the occasions that Tetsurou wandered over to the Kozume household. Why </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> would move away from that, Tetsurou cannot begin to comprehend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plus, Tetsurou thinks as he turns a street corner, dodging a jogger with a sidestep and a mumbled </span>
  <em>
    <span>excuse me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the fact that Kenma’s father moved them almost two whole blocks away is just…so maddening, really! Gone are the days where Tetsurou could dart from one household to the other in under two minutes. Gone are the days where he could see the Kozume’s mailbox from the sidewalk just in front of his own house. Five houses apart is the world they grew up in. A small world, a safe world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But a world that Kenma’s father had deemed to exist no longer. And Tetsurou </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> thankful, he guesses. It allows him to wander further from home, for one. Without Kenma moving, Tetsurou never would have found the bakery that sold apple tarts every Wednesday and Sunday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Currently, he’s on his way to the New House—it’s not Kenma’s, Kenma’s house was sold against both his and Tetsurou’s wills—to pick up his best friend for the weekend. Because while Tetsurou is eleven years old—soon to be twelve—Kenma was not, and Tetsurou’s parents felt that it would be more appropriate for Tetsurou to go pick up his best friend now that they lived further apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Tetsurou sees this as a </span>
  <em>
    <span>problem</span>
  </em>
  <span>, in fact, he’s thrilled that his parents think he’s ready to be trusted further from home! And to bring Kenma back at that—truly a task he will not be taking lightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The flaw in this plan, however, was the unexpected sight of Kenma’s father opening the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want?” Kenma’s dad snaps the moment the front door opens. Tetsurou immediately shrinks in on himself, taking a step back in fear. A fear born from hearing this man raise his voice too many times, a fear he cannot explain fully but it sits in his stomach all the same. “Oh, Tetsurou.” His name is said flatly, brown eyes narrowing as they stare down at Tetsurou’s shrunken frame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello,” Tetsurou greets politely, hoping that his voice does not crack on the word. “I’m here to pick up Kenma! We’re supposed to have a sleepover weekend!” Tetsurou, while young, knows enough to not let the </span>
  <em>
    <span>because Kenma said you weren’t home</span>
  </em>
  <span> slip from his tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If possible, at the mention of his son’s name, Kenma’s father looks even more irritated. Tetsurou drops his gaze before he does something dumb—like cry—praying that Kenma appears sooner rather than later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of yelling at Tetsurou like it looks like Kenma’s father </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to, he turns his head to look over his shoulder. “Kenma! Get down here!” he shouts and Tetsurou </span>
  <em>
    <span>swears</span>
  </em>
  <span> that the door shakes out of fear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully, Tetsurou spies Kenma scurry over from the space between his father and the door frame, inky black hair tied messily in a bun and his red backpack stuffed with what Tetsurou assumes are games and extra clothes. Thirty seconds have yet to pass before Kenma stands next to his father, the only indication that he’s excited to see Tetsurou is the slow blink of golden eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, Tetsurou simply stares at the two of them, eyes flicking between them as he tries to catalog the similarities. He can see it, he guesses. Same pointy nose—so much smaller than Tetsurou’s own—and the same arch of their eyebrows. But, Tetsurou can still remember the way Kenma’s mother’s eyes sparked like the thunderbolt Pikachu does in Pokémon and knows that the resemblance between Kenma and his mother far outweigh the similarities between Kenma and his father. Once again, Tetsurou mourns the loss of a mother who was not biologically </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> but felt more like family than the man in front of him ever has.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dad,” Kenma says finally, hands coming up to push at his father’s side. “I’m staying with Tetsurou for the weekend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou watches in growing awe and fear as Kenma slips into the space between the doorway and his father’s body, stepping out to stand next to Tetsurou. With a quick grin that betrays the mischief that Tetsurou knows his best friend is capable of, Kenma grabs Tetsurou’s hand, pulling him away from the still-open door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, wait!” Tetsurou stumbles backward, refusing to pull his hands away from Kenma’s. Quickly he turns around so that he’s not in danger of cracking his head open. Belatedly he thinks to turn around to tell Kenma’s father that he’ll bring him back safely on Monday, but before he can get any words out, the front door slams shut. “Kenma!” he chides, stumbling after his best friend as they continue down the street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He doesn’t care, it’s fine.” There’s a heat to Kenma’s words that wasn’t there last year, a bruise that Tetsurou isn’t sure he’s allowed to press against.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, for now, he opts to leave it alone, pushing the issue to the back of his mind as the two of them navigate the short walk between their houses.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>The summer before Tetsurou starts eighth grade, he sees something he shouldn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows, instantly, that Kenma had not been aware that Tetsurou saw these things. At first, Tetsurou thinks nothing of the marks, likening them to a nasty fall from a tree or even the result of Kenma scratching too hard at his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou thinks this because it’s easier. Thinks this, because there seems to be no other option. The marks had always faded a few days later—sometimes sooner—so it wasn’t that far of a stretch to think that it was just a continuous accident. And if it wasn’t, Tetsurou didn’t think it was his place to push Kenma for information.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, the summer before Tetsurou enters eighth grade, his brain connects the dots.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>See, it happens like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of them laying on their backs, shirts pushed up to expose their skin both to the cool tile of Tetsurou’s living room floor against their backs and the sweet kiss of circulating air of the fan above them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just hours before they had been kept blessedly cool by the continuous eating of popsicles, huddled in the kitchen with numerous wrappers scattered across the floor and an empty box in the space between Kenma and Tetsurou’s knees. That was how Tetsurou’s father had found them, likely in an attempt to grab another iced coffee from the fridge Tetsurou was cross-legged in front of. Though his tone had sent Tetsurou and Kenma scurrying to pick up their mess and vacate the room, Tetsurou didn't miss the amused curl of his father’s mouth as he dashed out of the kitchen with Kenma’s sticky fingers curled around his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s too hot to go outside, hot enough that Kenma </span>
  <em>
    <span>swore</span>
  </em>
  <span> that ice cream would turn to cheese if they put it outside for just ten seconds. Tetsurou doesn’t think that’s likely to happen, but the imagery of such a thing sent the two of them into an endless loop of giggles, breathless laughter fanning across heated skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s also too hot to play video games, they had tried. Clammy hands, they quickly discovered, were impossible to play with. On top of that, Kenma overheated only ten minutes in, face flushed and breathing shallow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So. Tetsurou had decided they would just lay on the tiled ground now, hoping that the act of doing nothing is enough to cool them down. Why his parents won’t make the house colder, he doesn’t know, but he hates it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Tetsurou sighs up at the ceiling, fingers tugging his shirt up higher. “Kenma, I’m bored!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There is no reply to his exclamation, which isn’t odd, but a foot nudges at Tetsurou’s own. Immediately, Tetsurou grins, nudging the foot back. Soon enough the two of them are rolling around the tile, laughter once more filling the living room as they try to play tag with just their feet alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This, here, is where Tetsurou sees it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>See it happens as Kenma rolls away from his, light giggles lighting up the room as golden eyes squint in obvious glee. Tetsurou doesn’t know how it happens, really, but the collar of Kenma’s shirt shifts over just enough to expose the line of his collarbone, exposing part of his shoulder in the same breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scratches, Tetsurou guesses at first, eyes fixated on the marks for just a moment before Kenma’s laughter distracts him. Just as soon as the marks are uncovered, the shirt slides back into place, covering angry red lines.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, Tetsurou is in eighth grade—almost!—and he knows things now. Knows right from wrong, usually, and there is something </span>
  <em>
    <span>not right</span>
  </em>
  <span> about those scratches. Because scratches seems too tame a word to describe the marks he had just seen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou does not ask, figuring the light bruises around the scratches was just a trick of the light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later, he will wish he knew better.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Tetsurou isn’t sure he is ever going to look back on his freshman year of high school and go </span>
  <em>
    <span>this was a good year</span>
  </em>
  <span>, despite what people are telling him that high school is some grand four years he will never forget. Based on this first year alone, Tetsurou hopes he forgets it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not like anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad</span>
  </em>
  <span> has happened so far, halfway through the second semester. A home run to the summer, he knows this, just the ending stretch and he’ll be free for just a little while. But no one told him it was going to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>weird</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was told that high school is great and high school is some of the most fun he’ll have in his life, that high school is the end all be all kid, that once he goes to college he’s an adult with adult responsibilities. High school, based on all these grand stories he has been told, sucks in comparison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, by now he’s grown out of whatever shyness that plagued him in elementary school, though Tetsurou wouldn’t label himself popular by any means. Maybe more on track with </span>
  <em>
    <span>nerd</span>
  </em>
  <span> if being in honors physics and honors math has anything to go by. He’s okay with that though, he doesn’t take the classes </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Tetsurou’s even made a friend!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If friend meant competing on every homework assignment and test for the better grade, looked on only by another friend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe Tetsurou should call Suguru a rival. Mika though, Tetsurou will call her a friend, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The oddest thing about all of this, if Tetsurou must put a name to it, is knowing Kenma isn’t in the same school.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And not only that, they don’t have the same start </span>
  <em>
    <span>or</span>
  </em>
  <span> end times—with Tetsurou both starting and ending an hour later. Weekends are the only times Tetsurou can truly see his best friend and even then, there are times Kenma tells him </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No? The same Kenma that apparently cried when their parents broke the news that Tetsurou was slated to start kindergarten. Shockingly it was not Tetsurou who had separation anxiety—though he was shy and often didn’t talk to his teachers or classmates—but it was Kenma who struggled to be away from Tetsurou.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A strain on their friendship that Tetsurou did not see coming. A strain that he tries so hard to fix but sometimes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It feels like he’s losing Kenma, sometimes. Piece by piece. And losing Kenma? Tetsurou cannot let that happen. Not in this lifetime, not in the next lifetime. Kenma is his best friend, the one he tells all his secrets to, the one that holds Tetsurou’s hand through the changes Tetsurou struggles to accept.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thankfully Tetsurou is able to shove such thoughts to the side—at least for now. Because right now, he has Kenma. Though the situation isn’t the best, when is a homework study session ever truly </span>
  <em>
    <span>fun</span>
  </em>
  <span>, at least Kenma had agreed to meet up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, they sit there. In silence broken only by the </span>
  <em>
    <span>swish</span>
  </em>
  <span> of turning pages and the scratch of pencil on paper. In silence, Tetsurou gets distracted by the bruises that peek around the curve of Kenma’s collarbone, their shape oddly similar to fingers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kenma?” Tetsurou whispers, tapping his pencil eraser against the wood of the library table. Kenma only spares him a glance, golden eyes meeting his for just a brief second before refocusing on whatever coursework he had chosen to work on. “Kenma, what happened to your shoulder?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If someone were to ask Tetsurou later if he would have asked this question knowing the outcome, Tetsurou isn’t sure he would know how to respond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the reaction… is something. At least. A reaction that Kenma hears him, a confirmation of things Tetsurou thinks he knew years ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t,” Kenma replies, voice harsh despite the low volume. It shocks Tetsurou, causing him to sit straight in his seat, brows furrowing. “Please, don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, when golden eyes catch Tetsurou’s stare, they hold it. This time, it is Tetsurou who drops his gaze, though he does not release the tension he holds in his shoulders. “Later,” he says, picking up his pencil again. “Come home with me after this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later comes quicker than Tetsurou thought it would. Later has the two of them standing in Tetsurou’s bedroom, the door closed and locked to keep his parents away as Kenma strips off his shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not much, not damning in its appearance, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The marks are just that—marks. Slender bruises, pale green, and yellows as they fade into otherwise unblemished skin. The bruises seem concentrated on only one side of Kenma’s body, tapering off just under the dip of Kenma’s collarbone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They are marks Tetsurou has seen before, several times. These are tame to some of the markings he has seen on his best friend’s body, and while he’s not sure why </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span> is the time he decides to bring it up, he knows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something is wrong. Something has been wrong, and something will continue to be wrong until Tetsurou changes it. Or tries to change it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Kenma lets him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who…” Tetsurou reaches to touch one of the bruises, freeze when Kenma makes a wounded sound, body curling in on itself as if ready to defend against an attack. Tetsurou lowers his hand, taking a single deep breath before continuing. “Who did this to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t matter.” Kenma’s eyes dart around the room, never settling in one place for too long. “Can…can I put my shirt on now. Are you done?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unsure of what he can do to help in such a situation, Tetsurou nods his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't miss the way Kenma flinches when Tetsurou’s father calls up the stairs that dinner is ready.</span>
</p><hr/><p>
  <span>Picture this: a full bed covered in too many pillows—half of which are bound to end up on the floor before the sun rises once more—and a boy in nothing but his boxers. There is only a single light source, a lamp illuminating the darkness of the room, the once glow in the dark constellations that dotted the ceiling no longer offering any glow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Picture this: the boy is not Tetsurou, his once fine black hair now a startling ash blonde that brushes sweetly against the tops of his shoulders. The boy’s chest is littered in bites and scratches, marks carved down the sides of his rips and deep red bruises branded against hips so slim that the shadows cast by the light in Tetsurou’s room almost makes it look like they touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou does not need to picture these things, wishing he could erase the sight of leftover dried blood stained against Kenma’s pale thighs. He does not need the added imagery of his best friend sitting broken on his bed, shoulders shaking as he muffles sobs into his palms, nose smushed against his fingers. Tetsurou especially doesn’t need the reminder that he should have done something years ago when the marks curled around his shoulders first appeared. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou does not get to picture anything, not when he watches his best friend crumble before his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels bad for pressing Kenma in the library, was that only hours ago? It feels like years now, but Tetsurou isn’t sure how Kenma hasn’t broken under the weight of this secret. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is this why he doesn't want to see Tetsurou these days? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His body breaking under the strain of injuries while Tetsurou sits in bed two blocks away, wondering if he had lost Kenma to the sands of time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How foolish Tetsurou feels, standing by while his best friend, the one he swore at six years old to protect with all he could, sits almost naked on Tetsurou’s bed, skin akin to rotting fruit then flesh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou tries, years too late, to help, but his hand is slapped away the moment his fingers inch too close to bruised skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just…just gimme a washcloth,” Kenma says between sobs, wiping away his tears with the heel of his hands. “Or something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Tetsurou. Does that. He does that. Just, hands over a towel that had been lying on the floor of his closet, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>gives it to Kenma</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No questions were asked. Hell, Tetsurou isn’t sure if he’s spoken since Kenma had peeled his sweater off his torso, exposing half-healed wounds in what Tetsurou once had called his safe place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Honestly, Tetsurou isn’t sure if Kenma </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> him to ask questions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou says as much later when the two of them are curled together in bed, Tetsurou’s hands resting against the sheets between their chest. Close enough to feel the heat of Kenma’s skin, but not enough to touch. He’s not sure if Kenma would let him, and decidedly chooses not to think about how Tetsurou might be losing Kenma anyways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I promise,” Tetsurou says in the darkness, lamp turned off prior to them crawling into bed. “I’ll protect you. I promise, Kenma. I promise.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More than sees, Tetsurou feels his best friend nod, hair tickling the underside of his chin. “Okay,” voice hoarse from all his crying, Kenma barely gets the words past his lips. “I don’t wanna talk…not yet. Not yet…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou doesn’t know from who, but he will protect Kenma. If it means putting his life on the line, so be it. Whoever can touch a thirteen-year-old—no, younger than that, if Tetsurou really thinks about it—is a monster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, Kenma asked him to not talk about it, not yet at least. And Tetsurou will respect that. So he fills the silence with the same meaningless ramblings he tells Kenma every time they see each other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think,” Tetsurou says as sleep weighs heavily on his chest. “I think I want to go into English.” He plans to say more, to tell Kenma he’s been thinking about writing, about the notebooks he’s been scrawling just lines of possible poems. He wants to tell him all of this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he does not get the chance to that night, lulled to sleep with only the barest press of Kenma’s foot against his shin to prove that his friend really was next to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, Tetsurou is right. He does lose Kenma, both in the ways he thinks and in ways unexpected to him. In the end, Tetsurou is only left with a shirt that only barely smelled like his best friend and the blood spotted towel Tetsurou had shoved into the deepest part of his laundry basket in an effort to forget that night had ever happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn't work though, and Tetsurou wonders why he thought hiding the evidence would trick his mind. Maybe it was in hopes that he could see Kenma again, after bidding him farewell at the steps of Tetsurou’s house, his fingers aching to pull Kenma close to him, aching to press a gentle kiss against his best friend’s temple. His mouth burns with the desire to say more than the </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll always be here</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but something stops him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seemed too final to add more. Tetsurou wishes now, he had done so anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, Tetsurou does not get the chance to tell Kenma about the poems written about the pout of his lips, or the hazy memories of their mother’s feeding them apple pie. Tetsurou will never have the chance to see Kenma step into his high school for the first time, or to hold his hand as he stumbles through the first week of classes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For, just six days after Tetsurou squeezed Kenma’s hand in his as Kenma walked out his front door, Tetsurou’s parents sat him down to tell him that Kenma had run away from home three days prior. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vanished, just like that. Without a goodbye, without an apology. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tetsurou will wonder that night why he wasn't enough to make Kenma stay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a thought he will carry with him for the next sixteen years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That he wasn't enough, not to ease whatever demons Kenma had shouldered at thirteen years old, and not enough to protect his best friend. Tetsurou simply would never be enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, Tetsurou does not get to protect his best friend.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And with that, Year 1 is done! Please, if you have theories on what exactly happened to kenma, or like anything you THINK is foreshadowing from the past 7 chapters i would LOVE to see that shit bc i think its fun. </p><p>As i stated in chapter 6, i will be taking a break for the holiday season! I will see you all on January 7th, 2021. A long time from now, but i need to grind out another chapter and a half before hand. When I post chapter 8, you get a solid 12k+ chapter, so i think its worth it, okay? </p><p>Happy holidays! Happy new year! I will see you all in a new (hopefully better) year! I'll be a year older (or two, i need to get used to saying my age in another language lol) when you see me next! Mid-20s here i come!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. bodies keep warm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Of course." If possible Keiji's smile could kill a man. Tetsurou wonders if it would be better to die from this than to die during the possible disastrous outcome of a dinner date between the men who rebuilt his entire life and the man who singlehandedly destroyed it. "I wouldn't want Kenma to be uncomfortable."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy New Year! Welcome to 2021 and a new chapter (almost a week early) of wwyd! These next chapters are what me and my lovely friend/beta (milk) call Act 2. </p><p>I hope yall had a decent holiday season and that the new year brings yall health and safety. idk where u are in the world rn, but I'm sending good vibes that u make it thru 2021 as healthy as a clam. </p><p>This chapter has no major warnings, if you think something should have a warning, feel free to tell me what you want the warning to be and I'll edit this! otherwise enjoy this extra-long chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Limbs heavy from work and emergency glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, Tetsurou opens his apartment door to find Kenma curled on the couch, eyes glazed over as the television plays yet <em> another </em>episode of Cold Cases. If it was not for the change in position from when Tetsurou had left early that morning, and the plate on the coffee table, Tetsurou would worry that Kenma had died.</p><p>“I’m home,” he calls from the small tiled foyer, door slamming shut behind him. “Did you do anything else today?” Tetsurou asks as he toes off his shoes, fingers loosening the tie around his neck. An unusual choice of attire, but Wakatoshi requested both teams be on their best behavior for the coming weeks as the big bosses monitored their work for upcoming evals.</p><p>Not that Tetsurou is worried, knowing he’s unlikely to be fired—or reprimanded in any way—from the same company that handles his own novels. Still, evals are important to everyone else, and if that isn’t enough of a reason to play by the rules it has reached Tetsurou’s ears that if evals for both teams go well, Lev is likely to be hired on as a part-time assistant to either Keiji or Morisuke while he finishes up his college degree.</p><p>“The best way to get away with murder is using an icicle as your weapon,” Kenma replies, eyes flicking from the screen to glance at Tetsurou before concentrating back on the television.</p><p>Well. “That answers my question, at least.” Tetsurou doesn’t miss the amused huff that Kenma makes from the couch, though he spares his unexpected roommate no further glances as Tetsurou slips down the hall and into the master bedroom.</p><p>The two of them have come a long way, Tetsurou notes, as he unbuttons his suit jacket. He can recall the first week of Kenma’s sudden presence, the awkward silences they filled their shared time together. He had hated those first days, where contact was limited to the fifteen minutes where Tetsurou would check the crescent-shaped wounds that wrapped halfway around Kenma’s wrists. They would scar, he remembers telling Kenma, a finger tracing a few centimeters away from the healing marks. Kenma had said nothing then, just a singular nod, a defeated acceptance that some wounds would forever be visible.</p><p>Tetsurou had not known how to console him, and Kenma’s expression followed Tetsurou into his dreams. Into a memory, perhaps, Tetsurou thinks as he flicks his belt buckle open and slides black dyed leather out of his belt loops. A memory he did not know he had, a memory Tetsurou wishes he did not remember, even now.</p><p>But it had woken him up all the same, forced his eyes open and his limbs into movement. Tetsurou remembers barely making it to the sink before the acid burning his throat crawled out his mouth. By the time Tetsurou managed to crawl into bed, the weight on his chest seemed seconds away from crushing Tetsurou’s lungs underneath. Whether by luck or a tell that Tetsurou was unaware of, as if Kenma <em>knew </em>anxiety was pumping adrenaline through Tetsurou’s veins, the tips of his fingers bumped into Tetsurou’s chest.</p><p>Neither had spoken a word that night. Skimmed touches soothed shuddering breaths as Tetsurou fought against memories he had buried so many years before.</p><p>That night seemed to have broken whatever tension laid between them, melting away silences into slow conversation. Now, two months into Kenma shoving his way into Tetsurou’s day to day life, they could at least hold a decent conversation.</p><p>Nothing of substance, but then again, Tetsurou figures words aren’t needed when fleeting touches in the dead of night coupled with waking up to Kenma pressing closer and closer to Tetsurou’s chest do enough talking for them.</p><p>Tetsurou exits his bedroom in a shirt that clearly is too large to belong to him and his boxers. “Did you take out the steak?” he asks as he steps out of the hallway, eyes immediately going for the spot he last saw Kenma.</p><p>Except instead of seeing his unlikely roommate staring at whatever horrific show that caught his attention, Tetsurou finds Kenma slumped over, head resting awkwardly against the arm of the couch.</p><p>With a soft laugh, Tetsurou only drapes the couch blanket across Kenma’s waist before making his way to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Though he finds the steak in the fridge, clingwrap still sealed around the meat, it's clear that Kenma had not pulled the meat from the freezer when Tetsurou messaged him hours ago, and the steaks were both still frozen. And while a part of Tetsurou is annoyed—he didn’t ask Kenma to do much, truly—he lets the feeling go with a few deep breaths.</p><p>Instead of the dinner Tetsurou planned, he rustles around in the fridge for a jar of sauce, whipping up a quick meal of pasta covered in red sauce, some sun-dried tomatoes, and a few handfuls of capers, kept company only by the television explaining yet another mysterious murder.</p><p>“Wake up.” Tetsurou uses his foot to nudge Kenma awake, a furrow between his brows when Kenma takes more than a few nudges to open his eyes. When eyes finally flicker open to glare at him, Tetsurou notices how molten gold swallows Kenma’s pupil. Unusual, but the longer Tetsurou stares, the wider Kenma’s pupils seem to get. “Sit up, I made food.”</p><p>“Not hungry,” Kenma says, unmoving. He blinks a few times at Tetsurou, struggling with keeping his eyes open. “Tired.”</p><p><em> Yes</em>, Tetsurou thinks bitterly, his arms getting tired of holding two bowls of pasta, <em> I can tell</em>. When Kenma’s eyes slip shut yet again, Tetsurou gives up, turning around to place both bowls on the coffee table. “At least move your legs,” he grumbles, pulling the couch blanket from Kenma’s body to push his legs away. If Kenma isn’t going to eat, so be it. Tetsurou isn't his caretaker or his parent.</p><p>Tetsurou doesn’t know exactly <em>where </em>he falls, but being Kenma’s keeper certainly is not on the description list, regardless of his title.</p><p>Thankfully, Kenma brings his knees to his chest, clearing space for Tetsurou to curl on the other side of the couch, bowl in hand. And while Cold Case still plays in front of him, speaking of a murder from almost fifty years ago still unsolved, Tetsurou finds he doesn’t mind.</p><p>In so many ways, Kenma is not Koutarou, a fact that Tetsurou knows. But sometimes, it’s easy to slip into the mindset that Kenma will act similarly to his best friend of fifteen years. Of course, if he thinks about it, Tetsurou knows that is both a disservice to Koutarou and to Kenma to think that, yet old habits die hard.</p><p>Halfway through the episode, Kenma seems to win out against the weariness weighing down his body, sitting up with a small whine that Tetsurou does <em>not </em>file under Endearing Shit Kenma Does. Wordlessly, he hands the other bowl to Kenma, waiting until the other takes a bite before returning his attention to the show playing in front of them.</p><p>“You work tomorrow?” Tetsurou asks as the episode ends, Netflix giving a fifteen-second countdown before it autoplays the next one. Tetsurou has no idea where the remote is, and Kenma seems to be in no hurry to change the show, so Cold Cases it is. Again.</p><p>“Yea,” Kenma says around a bite of pasta, voice managing to hold its monotonous quality. “Next four days.”</p><p>There is no further conversation, not even when Kenma wobbles on his feet when he takes both his and Tetsurou’s bowls back to the kitchen. A silent thank you, a routine that neither of them spoke of, but had been made all the same. Tetsurou would cook, Kenma would put everything away. And on days where Tetsurou cooked in the absence of Kenma, he always puts a plate in the microwave for the other to eat upon getting home.</p><p>A routine, unspoken like so many other things between them. A mutual understanding. So unlike his relationship with Koutarou, but a welcome change all the same. Because, like this, it’s easy to forget.</p><p>If the days are filled with almost stilted conversation, the night has become theirs. Where words fail and actions are of no value to either of them, touch takes control.</p><p>Touch. Such a simple concept, human contact. The pat of a shoulder, a well-needed hug when days were bad. Tetsurou does all of these things, and in return, he got the same. Touch starvation is not a concept familiar to him any longer, not when Koutarou cannot go more than an hour without tossing an arm around Tetsurou’s shoulders, or landing a firm smack between shoulder blades.</p><p>Touch starvation, a stranger to Tetsurou’s bed, a mistress he has not seen in years.</p><p>Just minutes after turning out his bedside lamp, Tetsurou feels a hand press against the center of his chest. Though this too is a routine, Tetsurou’s chest caves as his breath rushes out of him.</p><p>This too, is a routine.</p><p>Kenma can undoubtedly feel the uneven rhythm of Tetsurou’s heart, his calm outward demeanor betrayed by the organ that keeps him alive. Breathing. Allows him the life to bear witness to the slow unfolding of Kenma’s trust.</p><p>It aches.</p><p>Slowly, Kenma’s fingers curl against Tetsurou’s skin, pulling away until only the barest hint of heat brushes along the line of Tetsurou’s sternum.</p><p>It <em>aches</em>, but this too, is routine. Tetsurou does his best to keep his breathing steady, his hands by his side. Once, he had reached out to touch Kenma, to press his thumb against the slight swell of Kenma’s cheeks. Only to be slapped away, the heat on his chest vanishing and Kenma’s back facing him before Tetsurou could realize what he had done wrong.</p><p>The reason for these gentle touches, almost reverent, Tetsurou can merely guess. Maybe it’s to prove that this is not a dream, that Tetsurou is indeed back in Kenma’s life? Or maybe it is a reminder that not every man wishes to take advantage of Kenma’s slender body. That there are people who do not force themselves upon him, prying Kenma apart even as his lips beg for them to stop.</p><p>Either way, Tetsurou will let him have this, even if these touches set his blood aflame until the burn and ache is almost too much to bear. Until the desire to <em>touch </em>forces Tetsurou to push Kenma’s fingers away, allowing his lungs to suck in the oxygen they had been deprived of.</p><p>This too is—</p><p>Tetsurou feels Kenma slide his hand up Tetsurou’s sternum, trailing along his collarbone to his shoulder and down his arm.</p><p>This is <em>not </em>routine.</p><p>Here Tetsurou can feel Kenma’s fingers shake in the open palm of Tetsurou’s hand, a hesitation that has both of them holding their breaths. Slowly, Kenma wraps his fingers around Tetsurou’s hand.</p><p>The world—</p><p>—stops.</p><p>Clumsily, Tetsurou’s fingers brush against fine hair, Kenma’s fingers relocating to wrap delicately around his wrist. Though content with the extra contact, Tetsurou does not push for more, letting moonlit strands spill between his fingers.</p><p>Suddenly, Kenma’s grip tightens, a hiccup disturbing the silence of Tetsurou’s bedroom. With bated breath, Tetsurou stills his fingers, blinking slowly as awareness comes back to him in waves.</p><p>Still, Kenma does not let go of him. Instead, his hand is pressed firmer against Kenma’s hair, until Tetsurou feels his fingertips meet the warmth of Kenma’s scalp.</p><p>It is only then that long fingers release their grip around Tetsurou’s wrist, skimming their way back up his arm and down the divot between his collarbones.</p><p>Carefully, Tetsurou combs Kenma’s hair away from his face, smoothing wayward strands so that it tucks behind Kenma’s ear. Like this, he can barely make out the shadows of Kenma’s face, but when Tetsurou strays from Kenma’s hair, a low grumble sounds from Kenma.</p><p>Confusion floods through Tetsurou’s system unbidden, followed by frustration. They had already broken routine, can’t Kenma just <em>talk </em>to him. Tetsurou will only play by Kenma’s rules, not his own. Because he knows this isn’t about him, not really. It has always been about Kenma.</p><p>Kenma’s desire to take from him, to see how far Tetsurou will bend backward to accommodate him. It makes Tetsurou want to laugh, the thought of denying Kenma anything. As if he could. Tetsurou has already proven himself disgustingly weak when he lost Kenma not once, but <em>twice </em>within the past year, and yet let him back into Tetsurou’s life. After telling Keiji he wasn’t sure if he could do this again, he had.</p><p>Because Tetsurou is weak. Because the thought of losing Kenma for good is more terrifying than being repeatedly taken from. So if Kenma wants to use him, wants to press his palm against Tetsurou’s chest every night for whatever reasons he may have, well… Tetsurou will let him.</p><p>In the end, Kenma knocks Tetsurou’s hand from his hair with the softest of huffs. Tetsurou would assume that Kenma had gotten angry with him for being unable to decipher whatever coded message he tried to send, if it were not for the way Kenma curled himself against Tetsurou’s chest, fingers resting lightly just under the curve of Tetsurou’s pectoral muscles.</p><p>“Next time.” Kenma says, breath fanning over Tetsurou’s chest, the phantom brush of his lips making Tetsurou ache. “Next time.”</p><p>It feels like a threat and a promise. A declaration of something between them not being acted upon, something unnamed unfurling in the centimeters between their lips.</p><p>Tetsurou <em>aches </em>with a feeling he does not want to name. Not yet.</p><p>Next time, he echoes Kenma’s words as Tetsurou lets his eyes fall closed, warmth pressed to his front comfortingly.</p><p>
  <em> Next time.  </em>
</p>
<hr/><p>Tetsurou does not see Kenma for four days after that night, save for the morning. Next time, he had thought, extracting himself from the loose grip Kenma had wrapped his fingers in. Tetsurou had stared down at tousled blond and black hair, hands curled loosely into fists just in front of parted lips, and he had felt heat spread across his face.</p><p>Next time, Tetsurou told himself. Next time he would be ready.</p><p>That was four days ago. Four days of barely missing each other. Four days where Tetsurou returns home to find the smallest of things misplaced. A trace of Kenma, he would note as he eyes the couch blanket draped across the back of one of the table chairs.</p><p>It’s a lonely existence, but one that Tetsurou finds himself familiar with. First with the absence of Koutarou, now with the absence of Kenma. Except—</p><p>“How’s Kenma?” Keiji asks on day five, drawing Tetsurou away from his thoughts. The three of them sit in a café not too far from their place of work, a simple lunch of salad and sandwiches spread out before them.</p><p>It’s a quaint little space, tucked down a narrow side street between two larger corporate buildings. If the exterior and placement of the building didn’t belie its age, Tetsurou would have given notice simply in the way the white exposed brick is chipped in places, muted colors of taupe and red bleeding through. </p><p>Overall though, Tetsurou notes, the cafe is nice, though it has a few too many wayward plants on each table and ivy climbing the walls, but. Tetsurou can give credit where it is due. It’s not A Loutte, though Tetsurou knows he cannot compare every coffee shop and cafe to A Loutte.</p><p>Returning his focus to his friends, Tetsurou doesn’t miss how Keiji’s fingers interlace so beautifully between Koutarou’s, their joined hands resting on the table between plates of food.</p><p>A sharp ache makes itself known just under Tetsurou’s heart, a pang, a stab.</p><p>Longing, maybe.</p><p>“Alright,” Tetsurou answers after a long pause, forcibly dragging his eyes away from yet another reminder of what he does not have. Instead, he chances a glance at Keiji, catching the steel in his friend’s gaze. “For the most part. I think he’s doing better.”</p><p>“When is he leaving?” This time, it’s Koutarou who asks the question, words uncharacteristically rough. “Doesn’t he have his own apartment?”</p><p>When did this turn into an interrogation, Tetsurou wants to snap, gaze flicking between cold steel and an almost unnatural hazel. When he truly wants to know.</p><p>“That,” Tetsurou says, voice steady as he picks up his caprese sandwich, toasted bread crunching in his grip, “is none of your business.” He takes a bite, silencing any other questions his friends could think to ask him. Or at least buying himself some time.  </p><p>Calmly, Keiji takes a few bites of salad, but the frown on his face tells Tetsurou that there is more to be said here. Is it selfish to have to return to work before the conversation is over? Maybe Wakatoshi will call them back if evaluations come in earlier than expected, as unlikely as that would be. Tetsurou notes that even Koutarou seems restless, his thumb rubbing across the back of Keiji’s hand even as his stare rests evenly on Tetsurou’s shoulders.</p><p>Annoying, truly, that his friends have such an interest in Tetsurou’s life. With another bite of sandwich, Tetsurou flicks his gaze upwards in a sort of prayer, fighting the urge to rub at his eyes when a wayward strand of hair rubs against the outer corner of his eye. He understands it—the concern. Kenma had been living with him for over two months now, neither bringing up just <em>when </em> Kenma would ‘feel safe enough’ to return to his own apartment. Matters are only further complicated by the fact that Kenma isn’t just some newly-minted friend, or even a random old acquaintance, but the singular person who—</p><p>“We are simply worried.” It’s Keiji who speaks first, placing his fork down as he speaks. “Is that wrong of us?”</p><p>“No,” Tetsurou replies, forgetting for a moment that he has food in his mouth until Keiji’s concerned frown morphs into one of thinly veiled disgust. Even Koutarou snorts on a laugh. Hastily, Tetsurou swallows his bite, washing it down with a few sips of water. “Sorry.”</p><p>“Is it nice?” Koutarou says just as Keiji parts his lips to speak again. “Having someone else in the apartment?” It looks like he wishes to say more, but Tetsurou catches Keiji squeezing his boyfriend’s hand. Immediately Koutarou pouts, his free hand fiddling with the edge of his plate.</p><p>“You do recall our conversation earlier this year, yes?”  Though the words themself have no ill intent, Tetsurou can see the way Keiji’s eyes narrow, his mouth pressing into a thin line as he stares Tetsurou down. Tetsurou tries to ignore the chill that slowly crawls down his spine, but it’s hard when Keiji’s stare alone is pining Tetsurou in his seat. “So is it wrong of us to be <em>concerned </em>about you, given both your track record of letting this…former friend back into your life? Even when all he does is hurt you?”</p><p>“Keiji—” Tetsurou starts.</p><p>“Is it wrong, Tetsurou, to question your actions regarding this person? Because I can still vividly remember your sophomore year in undergrad, in case you have forgotten.” Keiji’s eyes narrow further, barely contained anger written across every line of his face that it shocks Tetsurou into silence.</p><p>“Love,” Koutarou breaks in, his voice soft as Tetsurou watches him squeeze Keiji’s hand in warning. The ache—longing—spreads across his chest as Tetsurou watches Koutarou raise his and Keiji’s joined hands to his mouth, lips pressing softly against Keiji’s white knuckles.</p><p>As if the word had jolted him back into awareness, Keiji relaxes his posture, eyes closing for just a second. “I apologize, that was harsh.”</p><p>Saying nothing, Tetsurou inclines his head in agreement. Harsh, he knows, but needed. Perhaps. It’s not like he didn’t know these are Keiji’s feelings, or Koutarou’s, if his best friend’s sudden silence is anything to go by.</p><p>Of course, as it always goes in a friendship like theirs, the silence does not last very long.</p><p>“Dinner!” Koutarou shouts, startling both Tetsurou and Keiji with his sudden noise. When Tetsurou aims a well-placed kick to his best friend’s shin, Koutarou at least has the decency to mumble an apology at his outburst. Though the grin spreading across his face does not seem to dim. “We should go out sometime, next week maybe?”</p><p>“The three of us?” Tetsurou asks, a furrow creasing his brow as he meets Koutarou’s twinkling eyes. “I love both of you, but we don’t have to go out to eat to hang out.”</p><p>“No, I believe Koutarou means…with Kenma?” Even Keiji sounds uncertain, which Tetsurou is thankful for. “Is that what you meant, Koutarou?”</p><p>Koutarou’s smile seems to get wider, even as he nods his head. “Yeah! I think it would be nice, don’t you think?” Tetsurou doesn’t know what expression he’s making, not really, but the thought of putting Kenma anywhere near these two…</p><p>Scares him? Or maybe that’s not the right word. He’s not all that worried about the day the three of them meet, but he does not want that to be now. Kenma is <em>his</em>, his secret, his breath of fresh air.</p><p>“I think that would be a wonderful idea,” Keiji says, his cool voice cutting through Tetsurou’s thoughts like a knife. Even without meeting Keiji’s gaze, he can feel the bite of metal catch against his skin. Ready to draw blood at a moment’s notice. “It would allow Kenma to meet the friend’s Tetsurou surely mentions and allow us to put our worries to rest.”</p><p>Tetsurou is vividly reminded that Keiji has been voted the Most Terrifying Project Manager two years in a row, staring at the polite smile gracing such an elegantly handsome face.</p><p>A phantom cut etches into Tetsurou’s skin, blood oozing to the surface. It is here, he realizes, there is no way to get out of such a dinner. Still… “Only if Kenma agrees.” Tetsurou meets Keiji’s cool stare, fighting the urge to rub under at the itch against his neck. Just to make sure there isn’t actually any blood.</p><p>“Of course.” If possible, Keiji’s smile could kill a man. Unfortunately, it would be Tetsurou who would die. Though, he wonders if it would be better to die from this than to die during the possible disastrous outcome of a dinner date between the men who rebuilt his entire life and the man who single-handedly destroyed it. “I wouldn’t want Kenma to be uncomfortable.”</p><p>The ring of Keiji’s phone is ultimately what draws their conversation to a close, its classical melody effectively erasing the veiled ire that has painted itself across Keiji’s face. From across the table, Tetsurou can see the name <em> Wakatoshi(Boss) </em> flash on the screen.</p><p>It seems their time is up. And to be frank? Tetsurou has never been more grateful. </p>
<hr/><p>The plan Tetsurou had originally thought of was staying awake until Kenma returned home, ready with a warm bowl of soup and the companionable silence that both asked for no details yet allowed them all the same. A plan that Tetsurou had done before, not quite a routine, but common enough. Easy enough too, since Tetsurou did not have to report to work in the morning.</p><p>But as the night slipped from late evening to early morning, Tetsurou simply put the soup into a reheatable container and stuck it in the fridge, and retired to bed with a frown on his lips and a rock in his gut. It was then that Tetsurou revised his plan to lie in bed, ready for Kenma to curl against his chest with a long sigh.</p><p>This too, ultimately failed.</p><p>Tetsurou does not remember falling asleep and judging by the bedside lamp still washing the room in dim golden light, it likely was an accident. As he fights the urge to fall back asleep, Tetsurou blearily wonders what could have woken him up.</p><p>But then, he hears it: a hiccup, a wretched sob. Even through the partially closed door, Tetsurou can hear the cries clearly. Instinctually, Tetsurou knows who it is, born from the years Tetsurou spent with their owner. Years where those cries only lessened when Kenma’s mother placed a barely two-year-old baby in Tetsurou’s inexperienced hold. It isn’t shocking when Tetsurou suddenly finds himself standing in the doorway to his room, the lamp light barely spilling into the dark hallway. Tetsurou dares not call out, opting to trail his hand along the wall as he makes his way out towards the hallway, fingers clumsily flipping on the hallway light.</p><p>It is here Tetsurou stands, at the mouth of the hallway, pale yellow light stretching fingers into the oppressive air settled over the living room. Now that he’s closer, Tetsurou can hear the ragged breaths from the couch, the rhythmic scratching of couch fabric under nails.</p><p>“Kenma?” Tetsurou says softly, a hand rubbing up and down his arm uselessly. An old habit from childhood maybe, a nervous tick that rarely had the chance to show its face. Tetsurou does not do well with feelings of nervousness though the feeling does not often crop up even now.</p><p>There is a hitch in the ragged breathing, or maybe it just abruptly takes a new rhythm. A whisper of movement and if Tetsurou squints he can see Kenma’s huddled form slowly unravel from where he is curled on the couch.</p><p>Tetsurou tries again. “Welcome home, Kenma.” He takes a step closer, out of the illuminated hallway entryway, a step into the looming shadows that currently make up Tetsurou’s living room. Still, Tetsurou keeps his voice soft, mindful of the subtle catches in Kenma’s uneven breathing.</p><p>Once, Tetsurou was privy to a situation similar to this, though it has been many years since. His first year in graduate school, when Keiji had been finishing up his final year in undergrad, the weight of his minor bending what Tetsurou had always assumed was a strong willed boy into something…</p><p>Almost broken. Cracked.</p><p>There had been no precursor for the attack, no blatant warnings in Keiji’s behavior that could have alluded to his breakdown. It just…it just happened one day, perched on Tetsurou’s bed of all places. That was the first time Tetsurou had seen an anxiety attack. Unsure of what to do, he had asked Keiji what was wrong, if there was anything he could do, if he should call Koutarou to help.</p><p>But in the midst of all of that, Keiji had only asked for one thing. <em> Hold me</em>, he had begged, voice wrecked by the painful sounding sobs that spilled from his lips. All he had wanted was touch.</p><p>This is not Keiji’s anxiety attack, Tetsurou knows that much. Though the details are hazy and the memory blurs due to an age that Tetsurou is unwilling to admit to, even in the confines of his own mind, he remembers some of the things Keiji had pressed upon him after everything had calmed down.</p><p>“Kenma? Can you look at me?” Tetsurou crouches in the space between his couch and the coffee table, just to the left of Kenma so if the other decides to flee he can do so easily. Thankfully Kenma does not bolt, his head raising after a few seconds. From this close, Tetsurou can barely make out the features of Kenma’s face, the light from the hallway struggling to reach through the thick darkness that settles over the rest of the apartment. Still, Tetsurou offers a smile, fingers tapping at his bent knees. “Where are you right now?”</p><p>Silence settles between them as Tetsurou counts the seconds before Kenma musters up a reply. “Home,” he bites out between breaths. His voice sounds just like how Keiji’s did back then: a hollowed shell, a discarded carcass that no longer holds the life that once burrowed inside.</p><p>“Home,” Tetsurou repeats carefully, rolling the syllable around in his mouth. <em> Home</em>, Kenma said. Heat spreads across Tetsurou’s face as the memory of five nights ago plays in his mind. “And is home safe?”</p><p>“For now.” Tetsurou can see Kenma try to curl back in on himself, his legs drawing back up towards his chest.</p><p>Tetsurou lets him hide for a while, ignoring the ache in his thighs and knees at the prolonged crouching position. Since the alternatives to this are either to stand up or sit on the couch, both of which could startle Kenma and sink him further into whatever headspace Tetsurou is attempting to get him <em>out </em>of, he remains crouching.</p><p>At least it’s a workout for his legs, Tetsurou thinks, shifting just a little more to relieve the strain. “Hey, Kenma?” Tetsurou asks, words spilling from his lips to fill the silence. Anything to distract Kenma from the demons sitting on his shoulders. “Can you focus on me?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Expecting such a response, Tetsurou tries again. “Will it help if I go back to bed?”</p><p>This time, the response is quicker, Kenma’s voice almost panicked as he all but shouts, “No!” The outburst seems to startle both of them, but Kenma recovers faster than Tetsurou thought he would. “Stay.”</p><p>“Then…can I tell you about my day?” Tetsurou waits for the mumbled affirmation from above, but before he can tell the story of how Lev managed to get printer ink all over his hands <em>again</em>, Tetsurou’s thighs give another protest. “Are you okay with me sitting on the couch?”</p><p>At this, Kenma looks up once more, though Tetsurou cannot see his eyes, the gaze is felt all the same. “Okay.”</p><p>To be fair, Tetsurou really does try to gracefully climb on the couch, but with his legs unused to being in such a demanding position for that long, it's more of a semi-graceful crawl onto the couch, legs aching more as Tetsurou stretches them out to the plant his feet on the ground.</p><p>Keeping an eye on the volume and tone of his voice, Tetsurou launches into a retelling of his day, starting with the printer incident which happened first thing upon Tetsurou walking into work, and making his way through the entirety of his work day—author grievances dramatized for added flair. Tetsurou notices somewhere between the casual mention of what he ate for lunch and Tetsurou drafting a strongly worded email to an author who missed their check-in, that Kenma’s breathing no longer has the rasping quality it did when he first crouched in front of the couch. Every so often Tetsurou hears an almost gasp pass through parted lips, but there is never a relapse.</p><p>“Oh, backtracking to lunch,” Tetsurou says, feeling the couch shift as Kenma gradually uncurls himself, “Keiji and Koutarou mentioned wanting to meet you.”</p><p>In hindsight, maybe the timing was not the <em>best</em>, with Kenma just getting over whatever anxiety attack that had plagued him for the past fifteen minutes, but Tetsurou didn’t know how else to bring it up. Not naturally. At least this way, he’s on the topic of his day and managed to just slide it into the conversation.</p><p>Surprisingly, Kenma doesn’t freeze up or offer much acknowledgment of Tetsurou’s words outside of a low hum. Tetsurou takes this as his cue to keep going, hands fiddling with the collar of his sleep shirt.</p><p>“Well, Koutarou proposed it, actually. Keiji and I were pretty taken aback by it, though Keiji thinks it will be a good idea for you to interact with the three of us. Put faces to names, I guess?” Tetsurou feels a gaze settle against his skin, flinching seconds later when cold fingers brush against his arm. He didn’t notice that Kenma moved, the shadowed silhouette now just an arm’s length away.</p><p>“You’re worried.” The phrase tumbles roughly into the darkness, cool air a whisper against Tetsurou’s cheek. “Why?”</p><p>Seventeen years later, and Tetsurou still cannot find it in him to lie. Not to Kenma, never to Kenma. He cannot think of a lie—a true lie—that was ever spoken between them. Still, Tetsurou searches for the right words. “Keiji is protective,” is all Tetsurou manages to come up with. <em> Of me</em>, goes unsaid. As does all the phrases that can be read in between.</p><p>Keiji is protective of Tetsurou. Why? Because Kenma hurt him, almost twenty years ago. Truly, in Tetsurou’s mind, there was no way that such a meeting is bound to go well.</p><p>A minor train wreck is all he can hope for.</p><p>“I’ll go.” Warmed from the heat radiating off Tetsurou’s skin, Kenma gracelessly trails his fingers down Tetsurou’s arm until it bumps against Tetsurou’s own fingers. Kenma stops here, resting his hand atop Tetsurou’s. “I’ll go.”  </p><p>How is it that even when Tetsurou’s job is simply to comfort Kenma and be there for him, in the end it is the reverse that rings true?</p><p>Tetsurou wants to ask if Kenma is ready to go to bed, wants to tell him that Tetsurou will always try to do his best to be there in times like these. That Kenma doesn’t need to hide panic attacks from him. None of these words make it past the knot in Tetsurou’s chest, pressing against his sternum with a fervor that Tetsurou believes is on par with how a heart attack starts.</p><p>
  <em> Next time. </em>
</p><p>None of those words make it out of Tetsurou’s mouth, not when he can see the outline of Kenma’s body shift towards him, the pressure of Kenma’s hand on his suddenly feeling akin to a boulder on his fingers.</p><p>There’s a knot in Tetsurou’s chest, growing warm as it realizes the best way to rip out of Tetsurou’s body is not through the bones and tendons protecting his heart and lungs, but by crawling up through his throat until burning heat settles thick on his tongue. It tastes, Tetsurou thinks, as his free hand raises on its own accord, like misery. Like hope. And a little like warm pennies.</p><p>
  <em> Next time. </em>
</p><p>A hand curls tighter around his, a squeeze that Tetsurou feels in the way his bones seem to creak. A warning, maybe.</p><p>Tetsurou knows they should talk about it. About the way the night seems to melt away the jagged edges of his and Kenma’s hearts. Of their silent agreement that darkness would no longer hold the nightmares and memories that plagued them for the past seventeen years. That these stolen moments where the light doesn’t dare touch them, is how they will take back the night.</p><p>Tetsurou tucks a finger under Kenma’s chin, silently marveling in the way Kenma easily lets him tilt his head upwards. His eyes roam across Kenma’s shadowed figure, unseeing of his features but knowing intuitively that Kenma is doing the same to him, fingers loosening ever so slightly around Tetsurou’s hand.</p><p>It tastes a little like pennies, Tetsurou thinks as the knot—nerves, he now recognizes it as—presses hot against the seam of his lips. It tastes like—</p><p>When Tetsurou was sixteen years old, about a week after the ill-fated attempt at bleaching Kenma’s hair blond that ended in his best friend with some awkward shade halfway between pumpkin orange and the color of piss, they tried again. This time with more hair bleach and what the kind sales associate said was stronger developer. Tetsurou believed her on grounds that what they had found in the back of his mother’s sink cabinet only said ‘ten’, while the bottle Tetsurou currently was mixing with blue powdered hair bleach—which smelled somehow sweet and similar to green apples—had a large ‘thirty’ printed across the front.</p><p>It was here that Tetsurou remembers looking at Kenma, a plastic bag covering his hair and red bitten lips pushed out in a pout, that Tetsurou first thought to himself <em> I want to kiss him</em>.</p><p>It’s a thought he won’t be able to act on for seventeen years, a thought that Tetsurou buried deep in the back of his mind as the years passed.</p><p>A wish he never truly thought he would see to fruition.</p><p>Tetsurou will say later that it’s him who closed the final centimeters between their mouths, but both him and Kenma will know that it’s a lie. Though, Kenma won’t go out of his way to correct him, almost content to let his little victory be a secret between the two of them.</p><p>That is to say, it is Kenma who presses his lips against Tetsurou’s. It’s Kenma who tilts his head sideways as his free hand moves to tangle in Tetsurou’s hair, grip gentle yet grounding all the same. He tastes warm, Tetsurou notes, pulling away from Kenma to press a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth.</p><p>Words bubble up, eager to be spoken into the comfort of the night, but Tetsurou silences them with another kiss to Kenma’s lips, tilting his chin further up to allow an easier slide of their lips together.</p><p>If this had been anyone other than Kenma, Tetsurou would be concerned about the lack of intensity, but this… this is fitting. The gentle slide of their lips together, the silence broken only by the wet sounds of lips parting and Kenma’s tiny gasps as they separate for air.</p><p>“Sleep,” Tetsurou whispers against swollen lips, halfheartedly wishing for the day he can see them rather than just feel them. For now, this will work. He’s not greedy, he knows his limits. “We should go to sleep.”</p><p>Kenma presses their lips together in lieu of a reply, a muted hunger so unlike the previous kisses that Tetsurou can only allow himself to be swept along for the ride as Kenma slides his tongue into Tetsurou’s mouth with a sound that causes heat to burst low in his belly.</p><p>This time, when they part, it is not only Kenma who is out of breath, and Tetsurou is taken aback at the aggression Kenma can so easily display. So unlike the Kenma in his memories, so unlike the Kenma that begged Tetsurou to help him in the darkest of his nightmares.</p><p>“Bed,” Kenma huffs against wet lips. “Sleep.” </p>
<hr/><p>As life happens to go, Tetsurou does not get to bring Kenma to any sort of dinner involving the company of Keiji or Koutarou the next week. Nor does he have to do so the week following. Or even in the month following. In fact, it has seemed that in some ways, the gods have smiled upon Tetsurou, allowing what would be a rather disastrous dinner to be shoved to the backburner until further notice.</p><p>In other ways, however, it seems that every other aspect of Tetsurou’s life seems to be keen on driving him insane.</p><p>“Sir,” Tetsurou speaks in the empty hallways on his office floor, sun shining low through the windows overlooking the rest of the city. “May I remind you that this manuscript is due in two weeks, an extension me and my team have granted after <em> you </em> begged us to give you more time.” On the other line, Tetsurou barely pays attention to excuse after excuse that the author gives, shoving his hand into the pocket of his slacks to avoid any aggravated motions.</p><p>“Sir—<em> sir </em> —” His fingers tighten around the edges of his phone. “My team and I gave you an extra six weeks, and you have <em>nothing </em>less than half of what is supposed to be submitted to us for editing in two weeks. Not only does this show me that you are incapable of holding yourself to a schedule, but do you realize the position you put on the rest of the department? No more extensions. I will be following up with an email. Have a nice day.”</p><p>Tetsurou wishes for the days where flip phones were a thing, violently jamming his thumb against the red End Call button on his screen will forever be less satisfying than the <em>click </em>of a phone flipping shut.</p><p>Surrounded by the silence of an empty hallway and an equally empty breakroom, Tetsurou busies himself with grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge before plopping down at one of the tables reminiscent of a school cafeteria. He chugs half the bottle in one go, plastic crinkling pleasantly in his hand.</p><p>“I thought I heard your voice.” A voice and a figure appear in the entryway of the break room, his comfortable lilt washing over Tetsurou’s mind like aloe against sunburned skin.</p><p>Plastic crinkles as Tetsurou removes the water bottle from his lips, turning towards Keiji with a rueful smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Normal author bullshit,” is all he says, despite the tension still held in the lines of his body. “Sometimes I truly wonder how Chikara deals with these people, and why the fuck I agreed to do this shit part time ‘for the fun of it’.”</p><p>Keiji laughs, leaning against the doorframe, silver eyes crinkling in amusement. “Yes, you were rather gung-ho about working part time to keep yourself entertained back then. If only you knew.”</p><p>Snorting, Tetsurou picks himself up off the chair, draining the rest of his water bottle before tossing both bottle and cap into the recycling. “Fuck, yeah if only I knew. Hey, you on your way out?” Tetsurou shoves himself past Keiji, not caring for the way their shoulders bump as he does so. “I’ll walk with you to the station if you're heading out too.”</p><p>He’s just a few steps out of the breakroom when Keiji speaks again. “No, I still have a few things to type out before I head home for the evening.” There’s hesitation in his voice, something Tetsurou can only pick out from their years of friendship under his belt.</p><p>Tetsurou turns around, mouth pulling down into a frown as he watches Keiji seem to curl in on himself—shoulders hunching in and fingers fidgeting in front of him. “What’s wrong?” he asks. It’s not like Keiji to get so obviously worried about something, especially when it comes to things between the two of them. Sure they were caustic to each other at times, but Tetsurou cannot think of anything that would have warranted Keiji acting so out of character.</p><p>“I wanted to apologize,” Keiji starts, silver eyes boring into Tetsurou’s. “For lunch, a couple months ago. I’ve been thinking about it and I do believe I was in the wrong for how I spoke about you and how you are handling living with your friend.” Keiji gives a small incline of his head, a sort of aborted bow born from years in a traditional Japanese household.</p><p>Oh? “That’s it? It’s fine, I’m not mad.” Rocking back to rest is weight on his heels, Tetsurou hums. “Though, I was promised dinner back then, which hasn’t happened. You can apologize for that.” He grins at Keiji, laughing when Keiji just scowls back at him. “Hey! It’s not my fault your boyfriend thinks it would be a good idea to pack the four of us into some restaurant for what is likely to be the worst double date in history.”</p><p>Huffing Keiji rolls his eyes, shoulders rolling back and spine straightening as he returns to the Keiji that Tetsurou is more familiar with. “I will speak to Koutarou about planning a dinner, preferably in a restaurant that offers privacy to their guests.” When Tetsurou snorts, Keiji offers a low laugh of his own. “I do hope you are prepared for such an interaction. I do not agree with whatever relationship you have with this old friend of yours.”</p><p>Tetsurou vows to keep it a secret—at least for now—that he and Kenma end up making out in bed more often then they don’t. Over the past month, Tetsurou has gotten familiar with the soft sighs and hitched breaths that fall from Kenma’s lips. “I am well aware that you are an asshole, Keiji, but thank you for the reminder.”</p><p>“I am not an asshole,” Keiji retorts, the scowl on his face fierce enough to start a fire with damp wood. “You—”</p><p>“You simply make stupid decisions,” Tetsurou finishes with a wave of his hand. A common phrase, dating back probably to one of their first meetings together, if Tetsurou is being honest. Back then, it was fair, Tetsurou made several stupid decisions in regards to how he handled himself outside of academia, and Keiji often had to step in as a voice of reason. Belatedly, Tetsurou notices that Keiji has taken one threatening step towards him, irritation rolling off his body in waves. And while Tetsurou prides himself on being able to flirt with death, he does not actively wish to die by Keiji’s hands. “Have a good evening, bye!” he rushes out, feeling almost elated by the fact that even so far into their careers, he can still engage in stupid, childish antics with his friends.</p><p>Growing old is a mindset, and in Tetsurou’s humble opinion, it’s one he refuses to adopt.</p><p>It doesn’t hit him that talking to Keiji had taken Tetsurou’s mind off the aggravating author until he is halfway home. With rush hour having long passed—nearing eight in the evening—Tetsurou had no trouble acquiring a seat, his subway car rather empty as most workers had already returned home and anyone taking the subway this early in the evening tended to head <em>towards </em>downtown, not away from it. Either way, Tetsurou takes solace in the rhythmic rumble of screeching metal wheels grinding against rails, sending a text message to Koutarou that Keiji needs a reminder to go home—and to not take work home <em>with </em>him.</p><p>Tetsurou ends up talking to Koutarou the rest of the ride home, throwing out cafes and restaurants they might want to go to for what Tetsurou adamantly calls Disaster Double Dinner Date, a name that Koutarou replies with more emojis then what is probably societally accepted for a grown man in his thirties. Koutarou even goes as far as to beg Tetsurou to create a group chat so he can name it Deciding Dining for Disaster Double Dinner Date, but Tetsurou firmly declines such a request. Adding Keiji and Kenma to the same texting conversation was not something Tetsurou ever wants to deal with. Kenma can be snarky in the best of moods, but has no trouble being caustic when the need arises. He tells Koutarou as such, almost missing his stop when his best friend replies that maybe he had made a mistake when proposing a dinner with the four of them.</p><p>Of course, Tetsurou agrees with him, but his concerns of whether Kenma could handle it had been soothed repeatedly. <em> Tough luck, text me potential dates</em>, he messages back to Koutarou before shoving his phone into his pants pocket and ascending the unnecessarily steep staircase out into the muggy summer night air.</p><p>By the time Tetsurou walks into his apartment building and lugs himself into the elevator it feels as if his work shirt is on its way to becoming a second skin, if second skins could be faintly blue in color. As the elevator smoothly pulls him up to his apartment’s floor, Tetsurou wonders if maybe a white shirt would be better in the mid-summer months, even at the risk of becoming some sort of white shirt contest contestant. It’s a thought Tetsurou finds himself circling back to every summer: wear white shirts to avoid sweat stains but at the risk of the fabric becoming transparent with sweat on his way home. That, of course, loops into Tetsurou telling himself that if he wants to wear a wet white shirt he might as well start going to the gym, but that requires <em>time </em>he does not have.</p><p>And honestly, carrying stacks of paper all day and having to walk up and down those ungodly flights of stairs to get in and out of the metro system is enough of a workout in Tetsurou’s books. Seriously, if someone was to ask him what he did not enjoy about taking the New York City public transportation system, it was the lack of escalators. It’s the 21st century, there should be escalators at this point.</p><p>Unsurprisingly, the apartment is dark as Tetsurou steps into the foyer, toeing off his shoes and peeling sweat soaked socks from his feet before making his way into the master bedroom. There, it is also dark, bed left in the same disarray as it had been when Tetsurou left that morning, a half asleep Kenma curled into the corner of the couch, makeup still on his face from his night at work.</p><p>Tetsurou, then, had stopped himself from pressing a kiss against artificially blushed cheeks, unsure if goodbye kisses were something Kenma would be okay with.</p><p>Although if Tetsurou thinks about it, it’s not like they ever <em>talk </em>about where they draw the lines. Or, rather, where Kenma draws the lines. Tetsurou has made it pretty clear that he has no lines, not really. None that Kenma hasn’t already crossed, that is.</p><p>Flicking the light switch to the bedroom, Tetsurou makes quick work of his sweat slogged shirt and slacks, throwing them into his laundry basket in disgust. Even his briefs are damp, god damn. Summers were too brutal. It’s never the heat that gets him, he can deal with a few days of hitting near hundreds, but the humidity is just too cruel. Stepping out of his briefs, Tetsurou can only sum up the energy to kick them in the direction of his dirty clothes basket before stepping into a pair of loose sleep shorts.</p><p>As Tetsurou makes his way to the kitchen, he makes sure to turn the temperature down, immediately sighing when the air conditioner kicks on, a cool breeze blowing against his still sweaty back.</p><p>In the sink rests a bowl with dried cereal pressed into the edges and a mug filled with what Tetsurou assumes is a mixture of coffee and water. Next to the dishwasher, cracked open and half full with dirty dishes, is a smudge of dark red, sticky against the counter.</p><p>If this were Koutarou, or maybe any other roommate, Tetsurou would guess it was blood, or even tomato paste if he wanted to really stretch his imagination. But Tetsurou had noticed over the past few months that Kenma had a tendency to put his dishes away <em>last</em>, a bad habit that often resulted in him rushing out the door with said dishes either left behind, or in this case, partly put away.</p><p>So logically speaking, it was more than likely that this is just another lipstick smudge where it should <em>not </em>be. A product of Kenma scurrying out the door before he misses his train, Tetsurou guesses. Not that he minds the little messes, not really. He likes them, seeing small signs that he’s not alone.</p><p>That Kenma lives here. With him, sharing the same space. Even if they aren’t always together. It’s nice.</p><p>But…</p><p>Don’t let Kenma get close, Tetsurou had told himself at the start. A failure from the beginning. Don’t let him hurt you, don’t let him worm back into the crevices of his heart. Don’t, Tetsurou warned himself then. It would only lead to heartbreak later, is what he repeated to himself in the first few weeks of Kenma creating a home in the hole that Koutarou had left when he moved in with Keiji last year.</p><p>Was this better or worse, Tetsurou doesn’t know. He’s not stupid, contrary to Keiji’s comments to the contrary. He knows that this—whatever is between him and Kenma—is unlikely to last. Or maybe it will never move forward. See, Tetsurou reasons that these casual nights where he peppers kisses along Kenma’s cheeks and over his nose, where Tetsurou gets the pleasure of knowing that Kenma tastes like their shared toothpaste and a little bit like sunshine, isn’t built for long term. Casual, a fling. Except somehow, it’s also not.</p><p>A fling would entail that these nights have no meaning. That the lipstick somehow smeared into the counter, or the way Kenma waits until the lamp-light flickers off before pressing a kiss against whatever part of Tetsurou is nearest to him, has no meaning. It does, Tetsurou knows this. There’s no concrete facts, not with something like this, but he knows that there is meaning in the nights they share, in the gentle puffs of breath between their lips, skin sweat slick even in the cool apartment because the city humidity never truly goes away. The meaning of it, Tetsurou can only guess. Comfort, most likely. Because Tetsurou is an old friend, someone who knows Kenma’s past but not his present? Or maybe it’s to erase all those who have come before and bruised the skin under their hands, who have hurt Kenma until he’s broken and bleeding. Maybe it’s because Tetsurou shows Kenma what he thinks he cannot have—someone who listens to the tells of his body, who knows him well enough to understand when to press Kenma further and when to back off.</p><p>Tetsurou wonders, as he chucks a frozen dinner into the microwave, grumbling about leaving his phone in his pant pockets, if Kenma knows Tetsurou loves him.</p><p>Not in the sense that Tetsurou is <em>in love </em>with Kenma, again, he isn’t that stupid. It’s been what, a year? Barely that. Barely a year since Tetsurou first saw him in a dimly lit club. Barely a year since Kenma showed up at A Loutte in a hoodie that had seen better days and a haunted look in his eyes that Tetsurou still sees now.</p><p>A year isn’t going to make him fall in love with his childhood friend. He loves him, similar to the bone aching love he feels for Koutarou. Or maybe the fiercely protective love he has for Keiji, but it’s all the same at the end of the day. Tetsurou cares for Kenma’s wellbeing, both as a friend and as a human being.</p><p>Jamming his finger into the +30 seconds button on the microwave, Tetsurou hurries back into his bedroom to dig his phone out of his work pant’s pocket before going back to the kitchen. He makes it in time to yank the microwave door open before it hits zero, canceling the remaining ten seconds with another press of a button.</p><p>He eats dinner at the dining table in silence, fork shoveling too hot alfredo pasta in one hand, phone scrolling through emails in the other. This late into the evening, Tetsurou refuses to respond to a single email regardless if it is labeled <em> Urgent </em>or not. Anyone sending him an email past ten p.m frankly did not understand how time worked.</p><p>Just as Tetsurou clicks on an email that Chikara had forwarded to him about a writer’s conference, a text message drops down, covering the first quarter of his screen.</p><p><em> Does the 25 </em> <em> th </em><em>or 26 </em> <em> th </em><em>work???? Thinkin about making a revs @ masa </em></p><p>Dragging the notification down to reply, Tetsurou shoots back a vague answer that he’ll check with Kenma about the date and get back to him when he comes back to work later that week.</p><p>To Tetsurou’s despair, the next bite of previously frozen pasta is cold. As is every subsequent bite afterward. A bit depressing, Tetsurou thinks as he cleans up the minimal mess from his hurried dinner, to have a whole shelf life in a freezer only to spend a precious few minutes scalding hot before succumbing once more to the inevitable cold that it had once been.</p><p>Getting ready for bed takes the last reserves of energy Tetsurou had stored for the day, his body barely managing to wiggle himself under thin sheets before his brain finally crumbles under the heavy weight of sleep.</p><p>What feels like seconds later, Tetsurou feels a gentle pressure against both sides of his face and lets his head loll to the side as lips whisper along his cheek. Fighting back the threat of sleep, Tetsurou somehow successfully tilts his chin up, a silent request that Kenma willingly gives into, cool lips brushing against Tetsurou’s already parted lips.</p><p>“Welcome home,” Tetsurou slurs in the space between their lips, eyes struggling to stay open even as he stares at Kenma’s barely visible figure in the dark of their bedroom. It’s a phrase he says every night, or tries to at least, in a reminder that Kenma is safe here.</p><p>That Tetsurou has offered his home, this space, to Kenma with full trust. Kenma doesn’t need to be afraid here, is what Tetsurou hopes for every time the words tumble from his mouth. He hopes that these four walls, whether it be night or day, offer Kenma the solace he needs from the real world.</p><p>As usual, Kenma does not offer a reply, fingers only twitching where they cup Tetsurou’s face. Maybe Tetsurou imagines the warm breath that fans across his nose, a heavy exhale gone unseen. Often as Tetsurou tried to say these words, there were many times that it is like this: with Kenma hunched over Tetsurou’s body as they share pieces of the night they do not talk about during the day.</p><p>Tetsurou wishes, and has always wished, he could see Kenma’s reaction to the phrase. To hear the kick of his heart, the widening of his eyes. But while Tetsurou knows he is greedy, he knows that these things are unlikely to be revealed to him anytime soon, if they ever do.</p><p>“Come to bed,” Tetsurou tries to say, tongue heavy with sleep. “Miss you.”</p><p>“Stop,” Kenma mouths against the corner of Tetsurou’s mouth, fingers tensing against Tetsurou’s cheeks.</p><p>It feels, for a moment, that the world heeds Kenma’s command. The ever-present traffic seems to stop, the air conditioning suddenly going silent. Even Tetsurou’s body seems to follow Kenma’s demands, breath frozen in his lungs, heart suspiciously quiet in its cage.</p><p>Being so still, so hyper-aware, Tetsurou can feel the way Kenma’s hands shake where they press against his skin, can feel the unsteady puffs of breath that fan across his lips. He does not remember when his eyes had fallen shut, but his body seems unwilling to let him open them again.</p><p>“Come to bed,” Tetsurou says again, a whisper in the darkness. He turns his head to press a kiss against Kenma’s wrist, feeling the steady pulse of blood under his lips. He mouths the next words against thin skin but does not speak them into the clammy night air. “Miss you.”</p><p>Tetsurou hardly notices when Kenma’s touch disappears, only giving a low hum when Kenma seems to reappear seconds later, his head pillowed on Tetsurou’s chest. Though the warmth of Kenma’s body so close to his own is too much, Tetsurou doesn’t have the will or the strength to voice this and slips back to sleep.</p>
<hr/><p>Almost three months after Koutarou’s spur of the moment decision that the four of them should get dinner, Tetsurou finally finds himself seated across from his two best friends, Kenma seated on the inside of the booth. Despite Keiji’s wishes for a restaurant that offers some form of privacy for their guests, the four of them had ended up at Oregano’s—a pizzeria that the three of them often frequented during their grad school years. Though the menu has changed in the years since Tetsurou’s last visit, the restaurant itself still boasts the same vintage décor, old televisions tucked into high corners, silently playing what is probably the same four or five movies that were in rotation seven years ago.</p><p>Despite the fact that Tetsurou barely had enough time to introduce Keiji and Koutarou to Kenma before the hostess called Keiji’s name for a party of four—and though New York City is a melting pot of cultures, the name the hostess called out sounded a lot closer to <em> Casey </em>then to <em> Keiji </em>—the atmosphere around their table doesn’t seem to be too uncomfortable.</p><p>“Calamari?” Keiji asks the table at large, eyes flicking up to glance around as he speaks. They settle for a second too long on Kenma and Tetsurou is no stranger to the subtle ticks and micro-expressions that make their home on Keiji’s face.</p><p>So, Tetsurou nudges Kenma’s knee with his own under the table—a vintage wood overlaid with newspaper front pages dating back to the 40’s—a small smile plastered on his face when Kenma turns to stare at him. “Did you want something other than calamari? Otherwise, we’ll just get two?”</p><p>For a moment, Tetsurou thinks Kenma is just going to agree with him, if not for lack of caring then for the fact that Tetsurou had begged Kenma to not rise to whatever passive aggressive bait Keiji was surely going to throw at him. For a moment, Tetsurou believes that this night—while definitely a minor disaster—might not end up as horribly as he once thought.</p><p>“Oh,” Kenma says, voice barely heard over the indistinct volume of the guests around them. “I wanted the bruschetta.” This is said a pitch louder, golden eyes flicking from Tetsurou to land on Koutarou and Keiji in turn. “Is that okay?”</p><p>And while Keiji smiles, lips thinning as the corners of his mouth turn up, Tetsurou makes eye contact with Koutarou, his best friend mirroring his fear.</p><p>This is where Tetsurou resigns himself to what is likely to be one of the worst nights in recent years.</p><p>Thankfully the waiter comes quickly after Kenma and Keiji’s aggressively polite exchange, taking their drink and appetizer order before disappearing back between the tables and into the barely controlled chaos of the restaurant.</p><p>“So!” Koutarou says after barely a second of silence. Next to Tetsurou, Kenma flinches at the sudden volume but otherwise does not react. “Kenma, it’s nice to meet you!”</p><p>Tetsurou has to push down the smile threatening to pull at his mouth, taking in the eager grin on Koutarou’s face as he leans slightly across the table to get even a few inches closer to Kenma.</p><p>“You too.” Kenma replies in his usual gentle manner. After a moment he continues. “I’ve heard lots about you.”</p><p>It seems to take Koutarou aback, though Tetsurou had told both of them that Kenma was at the very least <em>familiar </em>with their names. Tetsurou never offered to show Kenma pictures of the three of them, despite the copious amounts of college stories he shared with Kenma in those first few months of reconnection. And Kenma never asked him.</p><p>“Oh yeah! Tetsurou’s told you stories, ‘bout like college and stuff, right?” Koutarou slips back into his easy-going personality quickly enough. His genuine smile, the ease of the words that fall from Koutarou’s mouth—somehow both careful yet carefree—visibly ease the tension from Kenma’s shoulders.</p><p>From across the table, Tetsurou catches Keiji’s eye. He narrows his own, pointedly looking at the seemingly effortless way Koutarou handles Kenma before staring back at Keiji. <em> See</em>, Tetsurou wants to say, <em> it could be this simple</em>.</p><p>In classic Keiji fashion, he stares right back at Tetsurou, the warm light of the restaurant making the cool silver of his eyes seem that much more stark against his summer warmed skin. It is a testament of their years of friendship that Tetsurou spots the slight curl of Keiji’s lips, an almost sneer that sets Tetsurou on edge. And, of course, Keiji makes no moves to hide the fact that Tetsurou has caught him in the act, raising a singular eyebrow in defiance. Tetsurou wonders whether they would get banned from this wonderful establishment if he simply reached over and stabbed Keiji with the fork. Perhaps not, but perhaps Keiji will keep his animosity to himself, Tetsurou prays silently, settling against the back of the booth with another warning glare in Keiji’s direction. </p><p>Between Koutarou’s endless yet somehow meaningless questions and Kenma’s straightforward but considerate replies, the four of them decide that ordering two pizzas would be the best bet. Of course, this is in combination with the salad Keiji <em>always </em>gets—a chicken salad loaded with a blend of four kinds of cheese, onions, and topped with a spicy dressing—and the two pizza cookies that they all settled on consuming after filling their stomachs with actual pizza.</p><p>When their waiter returns with their drinks and appetizers, Tetsurou takes over the talking to relay their order. By the time their waiter is making their way to another table, Koutarou is shoving three calamari into his mouth.</p><p>“Hey!” Tetsurou snaps, reaching out to slap at Koutarou’s hand as he reaches for a fourth. “Dude! Share, what the hell?” Tetsurou snatches two breaded squids, dropping one onto Kenma’s small plate before eating the other.</p><p>“Koutarou,” Keiji says, a sigh working its way out between his lips. “Behave yourself, we have company.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Tetsurou shrugs off Keiji’s stupid attempts to look more put together and adult than he and Koutarou actually are. Putting on airs for what? Kenma, of all people? Perhaps to prove that Tetsurou’s life without Kenma is one of sophistication? Pointless when Tetsurou tells Kenma about all of their stupid stories at least once a week?</p><p>And so Koutarou and Tetsurou opt to ignore Keiji’s judging stare entirely, their battle of who can eat the most calamari the fastest far more important than whatever stick Keiji shoved up his ass before dinner.</p><p>Somehow, both Kenma and Keiji get their fair share of calamari, if only because Tetsurou dropped off pieces onto Kenma’s plate and both he and Koutarou had developed enough self-preservation to not stand between Keiji and food.</p><p>A memory distracts Tetsurou long enough for Koutarou to get the last piece of fried calamari, his hoot of victory rousing the attention of tables closest to them. Tetsurou gives a few grumbles of dissatisfaction, taking a sip of his beer before he remembers just <em>why </em>he lost in the first place.</p><p>“Hey, Keiji,” Tetsurou hedges, a grin playing at the corners of his lips. “Remember that time I tried to pick you up in my last year of undergrad?”</p><p>Keiji’s face remains impassive, his steel gaze flicking from Kenma to Tetsurou slowly. “Which time?” he asks as he picks up a piece of bruschetta from the plate in the middle of their table. “Are you talking about—”</p><p>“About the time you threatened to cut off his dick in the middle of the dining hall?” Koutarou finishes with a loud burst of laughter. Thankfully his hands do not slam on the tabletop, but he <em>does </em>lean heavily against his boyfriend to quiet his giggles. “Oh god, wasn’t that because Tetsurou said you cut him in line?”</p><p>“In my defense, the dining hall was closing and I didn’t <em>actually </em>have a meal plan there anymore. I was using Tobio’s, or something.”</p><p>“I did not cut you,” Keiji cuts in, eyes narrowing even when the curve of his mouth lessens from disgust to something akin to amusement. Tetsurou counts it as a victory. “And you never tried to pick me up to move me ever again, so I think you learned a valuable lesson, hm?”</p><p>On Tetsurou’s left, tucked soundly between the wall and Tetsurou’s own body, Kenma lets out a soft giggle, his hand covering his mouth as he does so.</p><p>“Ah,” Kenma says when he notices the table is looking at him. Tetsurou sees the moment Kenma tenses beside him, shoulders drawing in for just a moment before he straightens himself out, hand falling away from his mouth. “You really weren’t exaggerating.” Kenma looks at Tetsurou, the restaurant lights reflecting like stars in Kenma’s eyes. Tetsurou has to remind himself that while it might not be <em>that </em>unusual for him to dip down and press a feather-light kiss against the apple of Kenma’s cheek, the resulting argument that Keiji <em>surely </em>would have on the tip of his tongue the second Tetsurou dared to meet his eyes. </p><p>So instead Tetsurou lets his eyes crinkle at the corners as he laughs into the mood-lit restaurant. “No,” he says as his laughter dies into something softer, more intimate. For a moment, he ignores the weight of Keiji’s stare on the side of his face. “We really were that stupid in college.” </p><p>“<em>You </em>still are,” Keiji comments snidely, rolling his eyes as he reaches for another bruschetta from the plate in the center of their table. “Stupid, that is.” </p><p>Koutarou laughs at Keiji’s dig, but their waiter returns with two new beers for him and Tetsurou and topping off Keiji’s iced tea with a promise that their pizzas and salad should be arriving shortly. The four of them offer up a dissonant thanks as the young waiter clears out their emptied appetizer plates. </p><p>“So,” Keiji starts after a brief moment of silence, fingers deftly ripping open two packets of sugar and pouring it into his tea. “What is it like? Dancing for a living?” Tetsurou watches the way Keiji stares at Kenma, an almost vindictive gleam in his eyes. Tetsurou doesn’t understand what his friend is trying to do, but even if he did, would Tetsurou be able to stop it? Probably <em>not</em>. </p><p>Keiji is, and always has been, the singular voice of reason between the three of them. The one that questioned things so frankly, who grew into the role of protector quickly into his college career simply because the alternative was watching Tetsurou succumb to his inner demons. </p><p>Even still, Tetsurou hopes that whatever uncomfortable conversation Keiji plans to have with the meek and broken boy at Tetsurou’s side doesn’t dig too deep into wounds not yet healed. Keiji is always good at walking the line between politely ruthless and downright cruel. A skill born of good intention, but a skill Tetsurou often wishes his friend did not have to learn. </p><p>It takes a while for Kenma to reply, hands shaking as he reaches for his glass of water in an effort to buy time. Distantly, Tetsurou wonders if he should save Kenma from the clutches of Keiji’s grasp, if perhaps he would be better off talking only to Koutarou for the rest of the evening, but in the end he decides against it. In the end, the question <em>is </em>harmless, at least at the core. Tetsurou has no allusions that Kenma was unaware of Keiji and Koutarou knowing about his profession. </p><p>“Easier now, than it used to be,” Kenma confesses, his voice steady despite the low volume he speaks at. “Only nine hours, these days.” </p><p>Koutarou lets out a vague noise of shock, setting his beer down a little <em>too hard </em>as he leans across the table into Kenma’s space. It is only Keiji’s hand against the curve of Koutarou’s shoulder that stops him from climbing across the distance to <em>truly </em>encroach on Kenma’s personal space. An amusing thought for sure, though Tetsurou isn’t entirely sure how Kenma would deal. “A day?” Koutarou basically shouts, eyes wide. “That’s a lot of time!” </p><p>As expected, the sudden decrease in distance and the sudden rise in volume has Kenma curling back into himself. Tetsurou places his hand atop of Kenma’s where it rests in the space between their thighs. Giving a soft squeeze, Tetsurou watches as the tension drains out of Kenma’s shoulders. “Oh, no,” Kenma corrects, a strained smile toying at the corner of his lips. “A week, maybe? It just depends.” </p><p>The answer seems to placate Koutarou, who lets out a pleased hum and settles back into his seat with a cheeky grin. Underneath the table, Tetsurou feels his best friend knock his foot against Tetsurou’s, and he lets his mouth tug into an amused smile as he kicks his food back. </p><p>“Koutarou,” Keiji barks, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance when Koutarou accidently kicks the stabilizing pole underneath their table. Koutarou immediately straightens, his grin going from elated to sheepish as he turns to press a sloppy kiss to Keiji’s kiss. </p><p>Usually, this was normal; the two of them messing around until Keiji grumbled at them to stop before they caused a serious ruckus, only to be soothed by the gentle press of Koutarou’s lips against his cheek. It was how their dynamic worked in college, continuing years later until it was commonplace. So Tetsurou thinks nothing of the little chuckle that slips from between his lips, threading his fingers between the spaces of Kenma’s hand where it had moved to rest warm against Tetsurou’s thigh. </p><p>But instead of the usual annoyed yet fond smile on Keiji’s lips, it curls into what Tetsurou would call a sneer on anyone else. “Tetsurou,” Keiji snaps then, uncaring of the way two pairs of eyes blink in shock while the third curls so far against the corner of the wall, grip on Tetsurou’s hand turning painful.</p><p>For once, Tetsurou doesn't know what is <em>up </em>with Keiji, no excuse for the tension that hangs around him like a bad aura, let alone soothe Kenma who seems to want to become one with the wall. </p><p>“Is this any way to behave in a restaurant?” Though Keiji’s eyes are fixated on Tetsurou, the loud wince from Koutarou shows that whatever grip Keiji has on his boyfriend is tight enough to be at least uncomfortable. “I thought you were adults.”</p><p>“And you have a stick up your ass.” Tetsurou snaps back, squaring his shoulders as he meets Keiji’s metal-hot stare. “Stop pretending like you’re better than the rest of us, it’s just Kenma.” </p><p>Before Keiji dares to open his mouth, a heated retort burning the back of his throat, Tetsurou is sure, Koutarou makes another sound. This time his eyes are wide, his infectious grin overtaking the sullen mood of their table. “Food!” he exclaims, ripping his hand from Keiji’s grip as their waiter nears the table. </p><p>As is customary Koutarou habits, he eagerly helps the watier place the food onto the table, rearranging their plates and glasses until it can fit two pizzas and Keiji’s enormous salad. </p><p>While Tetsurou would be a liar to say that Keiji’s unusual outburst had been forgotten, he chalks it up to his friend being hangry, as the severe glint in his eyes seems soothed by the mere presence of food. And maybe it helps that Koutarou has his head bent in Keiji’s direction, the low chatter of nonsense spilling from his lips likely smoothing over whatever jagged edges Keiji is dealing with. </p><p>Tetsurou takes the time between the waiter leaving their table and the quiet way Koutarou handles his irate boyfriend to lean into Kenma’s space, fighting the urge to use his free hand to tilt Kenma’s chin up to look at him. Instead, he makes do with offering Kenma a lopsided smile, the ambiance of the restaurant falling away until it is just Tetsurou and Kenma. </p><p>And fuck, Tetsurou wants to kiss him. </p><p>“You okay?” he asks before he can give in to the tug in his chest that craves the way Kenma’s lips part in an exhale. For a moment, Tetsurou wonders what Kenma would look if Tetsurou were allowed to keep the lamp-light on while Kenma perched on his hips, hair covering the two of them in a curtain of dim city-lit light. </p><p>Thankfully, Kenma turns to look at him, the unease written across his face dowsing any of Tetsurou’s thoughts in ice. Kenma <em>does </em>part his mouth in an exhale, tongue darting out to lick at his lips before offering a wane smile. “I’m okay.” Kenma lies. </p><p>Tetsurou lets it slide, there is nothing he can do now anyways. Just hope, and pray, that whatever thin line Keiji decided to walk tonight falls on the right side of polite. That whatever words fall out of his friend’s mouth, lest it be crumbs, are not words that burrow into crevices to haunt them later. Tetsurou hopes that at least Keiji digs his claws into <em> Tetsurou’s </em>unhealed wounds. There are plenty there, he knows. </p><p>Despite these thoughts, Tetsurou focuses his attention on the rather glorious display of food in front of him, steam wafting from the two pizzas. His mouth waters, at the sight; a reminder that he only had eaten half a bagel almost eight hours before this. </p><p>“Would you mind,” Kenma pipes up after the four of them have dug into their respective dishes, plates piled high with pizza slices and some of the salad Keiji so graciously shared. “Telling me more stories? About college.” </p><p>The comment halts the mindless conversation Tetsurou had been having with Koutarou, something about workplace gossip and how Lev was a little <em>too happy </em>to be at the beck and call of Morisuke. In all honesty, Tetsurou is not particularly shocked about the news, Morisuke had a soft spot for Lev seen from miles away.</p><p>“Stories?” Koutarou replies, still chewing on a bite of pizza. He looks to Tetsurou for a second before he swallows and gives Kenma a sharp grin. Had it been on anyone else, Tetsurou would be worried Kenma was going to be eaten, but on Koutarou, it manages to just look a bit unhinged. “I have plenty of stories!” </p><p>And while a part of Tetsurou worries for whatever dumb thing is to come out of his best friend’s mouth, he knows it is likely to pale in comparison to the absolute trainwreck of stories he has told Kenma over the months. Still, the shine in Koutarou’s eyes does not bode <em>well </em>for whatever respect Kenma might have for him.</p><p>“I’m sure Tetsurou has told you that during graduate school he was writing his debut novel,” Koutarou starts, talking around another bite of pizza despite the affronted look Keiji gives him. “Well about halfway through, he got hit with some nasty writer’s block.” </p><p>And oh. <em> Oh</em>. Tetsurou knows where this is going. It’s not something he’s proud to admit, not explicitly, though even he has to acknowledge it is hilarious in its own right. At the time, Tetsurou truly believed that death was the only answer to the problems <em>he </em>created. Although, it had gotten rid of his writer’s block. Small mercies</p><p>“I forget the scene, it’s been so long, but Tetsurou wanted to test the limits of sleep deprivation; for himself. Research can only go so far, he told me and Keiji when we begged for him to literally <em> not </em> do this.” Koutarou laughs to himself, eyes distant for just a moment as he likely recalls the moment Tetsurou had sat them down to warn them of his own personal experiment. </p><p>“Did it work?” Kenma intones softly, golden eyes wider than normal as they stare at Koutarou. Tetsurou finds it cute, almost like a kitten finding a new favorite human; wary but intrigued. </p><p>This time when Koutarou laughs, Tetsurou laughs along with him, the memory bubbling to the surface of his mind at Koutarou’s prompting. </p><p>“Well, if by <em>work </em>…” Tetsurou snorts, dissolving into more laughter before he can finish the rest of his sentence. He doesn't miss the way Keiji stares between the three of them, the atmosphere much warmer now that Keiji was occupied with silent glares and salad. </p><p>“Tetsurou lasted three days, I think,” Koutarou says after swallowing his laughter with a mouthful of beer. “On the last night, I remember he slammed the door open to my room and declared that he had <em> seen God </em> and that it told him the answers to the universe.” </p><p>“And then I threw up,” Tetsurou adds, pausing to shove half a slice of pizza into his mouth. “I was running on coffee and energy drinks, but the coffee…I don’t think the smell ever truly went away, did it?” </p><p>At Koutarou’s wrinkled nose and petulant <em>no</em>, Kenma covers his mouth, melodic laughter spilling from behind his hand. “Oh,” he manages, eyes squinted in obvious amusement. “You really were quiet stupid.” </p><p>Tetsurou smiles at the comment, allowing another laugh to fall from between his lips. “Yeah, I think I ended up passing out on Koutarou’s bed for like a full day. And then I got sick for a week afterward. It was definitely not something I ever did again, that’s for sure.” </p><p>After that, Koutarou fills the silence with other college-age stories of their shared past, offering detours to explain to Kenma just <em>how </em>idiotic, with or without alcohol, the three of them used to be before they had real adult jobs. </p><p>“I have one,” Keiji comments during a lull in their conversation, Tetsurou just finishing up the story of their first shared Thanksgiving. The words are polite, a little frosty, but Tetsurou expects nothing less from his friend when they all but ignored him. Tetsurou hums around the rim of his beer glass, freehand motioning for Keiji to continue</p><p>Tetsurou notices too late, between sips of his beer and the movement of Keiji’s mouth, that he had made a mistake. </p><p>He realizes, seconds too late to stop the trainwreck, that Keiji has no intentions of sharing a humorous story. Tetsurou can name a number of things that could have set him off, starting from the way he gripped Kenma’s hand too tight upon introductions down to the last ten minutes where Koutarou had gone out of his way to ensure Kenma felt included in the conversation. </p><p>It is with a polite smile and a glint in his eyes zeroed on Kenma’s face, that Tetsurou feels his blood freeze in his veins. </p><p>“Kenma,” Keiji begins, referring to Kenma by name for the first time this evening. He takes the time to place his fork to the side of his salad bowl before reaching for the napkin on his lap. “Would you like to hear about the time I woke up to Tetsurou crawling into my twin-sized bed, drunk and sobbing about how everyone he ever loved, left in the end? I think he referred to you by name a few times that night if I recall correctly.” </p><p>Next to him, Koutarou physically jolts in his seat, eyes wide as he reaches to grip Keiji’s arm. “<em> Keiji! </em>” he gasps.</p><p>Tetsurou wishes he could close his eyes to this, to pretend it’s not happening, to rewind to earlier that day and cancel this whole dinner. It’s like watching a train collide with a stalled car, the screech of metal loud in his ears followed by the deafening crunch of hollow boddies. </p><p>“Or perhaps,” Keiji continues without missing a beat, dabbing the napkin at the corners of his mouth. “You would like to know that there was a time Tetsurou contemplated the most painful way to--” </p><p>Something in Tetsurou snaps, sound rushing back and the primal urge to scream burning his throat. His chest hurts, the pressure behind his eyes building. Blindly, Tetsurou reaches for where Kenma’s hand was resting in the space between their bodies, his free hand slamming against the tabletop. “Keiji!” he yells, uncaring of the way other patrons turn at the sudden sound. “That’s <em> enough </em>.” </p><p>Clumsily, Tetsurou manages to find the thin curve of Kenma’s wrist and Tetsurou wraps his fingers around it, thumb rubbing careful strokes across the raised scar that wraps halfway around. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Keiji spits, fingers curling tightly around his fork. For a moment Tetsurou wishes his friend would simply lunge across the table just to give Tetsurou the excuse to punch him in the face. Instead, he gets this...this liquid rage boiling in his chest, a cross between fear and hurt burning through his veins as he tries to both soothe himself and Kenma. “Was I supposed to sit here and listen to the three of you trade <em>hilarious </em>stories? Are we simply ignoring that you tried to <em> leave </em> us--”</p><p>“Keiji,” Koutarou pulls his boyfriend closer to him, his ever-present smile replaced with something sadder. Tetsurou has only seen the expression on Koutarou’s face a small number of times, and it ignites a hollow ache in the pit of his stomach. “Keiji, that’s enough. You’ve done enough.” </p><p>Next to Tetsurou, Kenma seems to have connected the rather apparent dots Keiji had thrown onto the table, going stiff as he looks between Keiji and Koutarou, breathing unsteady by the time he meets Tetsurou’s stare. The contact only lasts a moment before Kenma drops his eyes to stare at the table, jaw working as Tetsurou watches Kenma grind his teeth. </p><p>“Tetsurou,” Koutarou attempts to salvage the situation, his voice pitched low. Honestly, Tetsurou values his best friend so much in times like these, because frankly if Koutarou were not there, there would be very little stopping him from slamming his fist into the defined line of Keiji’s jaw.</p><p>“Fuck you,” Tetsurou says hotly, fingers tightening their hold around Kenma’s. He stares Keiji down, feeling that the liquid rage pumping through his heart is hot enough to melt even Keiji’s steeled stare. “One night is all I fucking wanted. <em> You </em> asked for this, you agreed to this!”</p><p>This is not the first time Keiji has stepped out of line. In a friendship as long and as close as theirs, there are plenty of instances where the two of them had gone too far. Too far past the blurry lines drawn in their friendship. When a need to protect turned into destroying what the other had carefully built. </p><p>It is not the first time Tetsurou slams his hands down on the nearest surface and screams himself hoarse, and he knows that it is unlikely to be his last. But, never, in the near twenty years since Tetsurou met Keiji in that freshmen level course that Tetsurou ignored until his third semester, has Tetsurou thought about smashing his fist into Keiji’s face.</p><p>“Go home,” Koutarou breaks the silence, the hitch in his voice giving away the obvious toll that the situation is taking on him. Tetsurou turns to his best friend, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but it dies the moment he takes in the barely contained fury held in the stiff lines of Koutarou’s body. Despite this, his eyes are glassy, a mirror of anger and hurt that Tetsurou believes reflect his own. “I’ll take care of this, just. Get Kenma out of here.” Koutarou jerks his chin towards Kenma, his yellow-hazel eyes softening the longer he stares. </p><p>With a small nod of his head, Tetsurou relents. He takes his time coaxing Kenma out of the booth, trying to keep his words as gentle as possible even as he keeps an eye on Keiji, who is <em>of course </em>not looking at them. </p><p>“Coward.” Tetsurou spits out after Kenma has successfully been tucked behind him, fingers curling into the back of Tetsurou’s shirt. “You are a fucking <em> coward </em>.” And if Tetsurou takes a malicious glee in watching the clench of Keiji’s jaw as the first tear rolls down his cheek, well. It is well within Tetsurou’s rights. </p><p>Not even Koutarou comes to Keiji’s defense, for once.</p><p>Good, Tetsurou thinks as an awkward laugh spills from his lips, thanking Koutarou for paying for dinner. Good, he thinks as his best friend pays his boyfriend of over a decade no attention, the gentle cadence of his voice promising to bring the leftovers to Tetsurou’s apartment sometime that night. </p><p>“Kenma?” Koutarou says, letting go of Keiji for just a moment to try to peek around Tetsurou’s body. Tetsurou notes the way Koutarou tries to keep himself as non-threatening as possible, feeling Kenma shift behind him. He doesn't know if Koutarou can see him, but judging by the gentle smile that lights up his best friend’s face, he can assume. “It really was nice meeting you.” </p><p>Chancing a final glance as Keiji, seeing his clenched hands and red-rimmed eyes, Tetsurou nods to himself, then to Koutarou. “Okay,” he tells himself, turning around to face Kenma, and pretending the smile he forces onto his face reaches his eyes. “Let’s go home.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So this chapter was brought to you early, because I work this upcoming week so I wasn't sure when i was going to post. The next chapter is slated for Jan 28th, but I will (probably, hopefully) be on a plane overseas at that time so I will ACTUALLY see you all again when I am safely and comfortably settled in my quarantine dorm, probably on Jan 30th or Jan 31st.</p><p><a href="https://twitter.com/mutsukx">twitter</a> // <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1i5dOq5DsBVOUJVj21jKgM?si=g7xuPXsmS7q_XWOy37LQ7w">fic playlist</a> // <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/wwydfic?src=hashtag_click">fic updates</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. surrender to hope</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>“Oh, Keiji,” Tetsurou patronizes, giving Keiji’s nose another tap just to see his friend’s eyes narrow. “You’re too smart to make the same mistake twice.” </p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello, happy belated Lunar New Year! I am back with the posting of chapter 9, I hope you all enjoy. </p>
<p>As much as I will try to keep a semi-steady schedule, please note that I am currently in a foriegn country for college, and both my college classes (and learning a new language) come as a priority to this fanfic. If updates are going to be slow--either because of my own life or the life of my lovely beta reader Milk--i will post about it on twt (mutsukx). </p>
<p>As always, thank you for reading the fic my 16 year old self wishes they could have written at the time. My goal is to finish this before next winter but i make no promises lol</p>
<p>edit: if u got an email that this was edited, its just an added first scene bc i didnt realize it wasnt on here!! i only noticed bc i had this page up and realized it didnt have....the first scene since i was trying to look at the formatting for smth for writing chapter 11 (10 is in edits still),</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tetsurou is quick to temper, but easy to forgive. He remembers the first time he snapped at Keiji, the red that tinted his vision as the two of them stood inches apart as they screamed over something Tetsurou can no longer remember. But he does remember the way he had forgiven Keiji for the incident only a few days later while Keiji didn’t speak to him for weeks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This situation is vaguely reminiscent of those times, when Tetsurou’s temper flared as easily as flame catching on lint, while Keiji’s slow-burning fire lasted long past its expiration date. Though Keiji was slow to anger, he held grudges far more than Tetsurou did. externalizing in his anger while Tetsurou often chose to internalize it, despite their personalities seemingly pointing towards the opposite. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tetsurou does not think there has ever been a fight that lasted this long. Not for him, not when it came to Keiji, one of his closest and oldest friends, someone Tetsurou trusts, even now, with the fragile state of his heart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been two weeks since the incident at Tetsurou’s former college haunt. He’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to return there without the memory of Kenma’s eyes misted over with unshed tears or the way Keiji had clenched their table hard enough to turn his knuckles white as Koutarou leaned in to soothe him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It angers him, still, that Keiji had ruined what could have just been an awkward but well-intentioned dinner. Tetsurou just wanted one dinner, even if it wasn’t his suggestion in the first place. Just once he wanted to have something that was his. To not feel like a third wheel, to curl his hand around Kenma’s under the table as he laughed at Koutarou’s lame jokes under Keiji’s protective stare. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But no, Keiji had made sure that the night would forever be tinted in a haze of hurt and anger. Tetsurou will lay the blame solely with him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tetsurou has yet to return to work, thankful for Wakatoshi’s cooperation to telecommute from the safety of his apartment. He’s not sure if he could handle seeing Keiji, he’s not sure when the anger will subside enough for Tetsurou to return to his job. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Konoha is, by every sense of the definition, a lifesaver. As the person who works directly under Tetsurou, he easily offered his assistance where Tetsurou’s in-person presence was needed. And by the grace of god—or maybe just because Koutarou had asked—Morisuke had given up Lev until further notice so that he could ‘gain experience with another team’. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Honestly, Tetsurou is just thankful no one brought up the reasons why he’s avoiding work. It seems unlikely that between Koutarou and Keiji that the incident would have stayed a secret—not that it was in the first place—but Koutarou had mentioned that he too was disappointed in his boyfriend. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In a way, Tetsurou feels kind of bad for Keiji, to have neither his closest friend nor his boyfriend in his corner. But then, he remembers the way Keiji had latched onto the only weakness that could drive a stake between Tetsurou and Kenma and used it to his advantage. And for that, Tetsurou cannot find it in himself to forgive his friend so easily, no matter how much he wishes he could.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For now, though, Tetsurou does his work every morning curled up under a blanket, his laptop in tablet mode as one hand carefully works through page after page of manuscript while the other curls around his coffee mug. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His phone lights up next to where it lies next to Tetsurou’s knee, a text preview causing Tetsurou’s hand to jerk across the digital page. Quickly, he turns his attention back to the manuscript at hand, blessed that he’s able to Ctrl+Z his mistakes before he’s all but slamming his half-full mug on the coffee table and his laptop slipping off his thighs to tumble into the crack between armrest and couch cushion. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, Tetsurou thinks while unlocking his phone, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, angels do exist.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>From: Koushi (Angel)</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>if I told you I was taking</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>a bath in new york, would</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>you believe me?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Despite the lingering hurt curled protectively around Tetsurou’s heart, the world feels a little bit brighter. It’s just a text, he knows this. Knows that Koushi is not privy to the ins and outs of his life, not when Koushi has spent the better part of the last three years bouncing back between the city to manage A Louette and Japan to take care of aging parents refusing to come to the States. The last Tetsurou had heard from Koushi was that he had met someone in Japan. But even that was news from two years ago. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, the text pulls back the curtains shielding Tetsurou from the morning light, showering him in a gentle warmth that seems to beat the early November chill. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>To: Koushi (Angel)</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>I would never believe u to</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>take a bath in an apartment</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>u haven’t cleaned properly in</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>
      <br/>
    </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>2 years. Try again.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The conversation flows smoothly from there, Koushi texting half in Japanese and half in English when memory fails him and in the end, Tetsurou calls his friend, rapid Japanese falling from his tongue as the two of them hastily catch up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And this is how Kenma finds Tetsurou an hour later: curled into the couch, head thrown back as Koushi fires off horrible puns that somehow managed to snag him a boyfriend. A part of him wonders if Kenma feels left out of the loop, unable to hear Koushi or understand most of the Japanese that Tetsurou speaks into the receiver, but it does not stop his friend from crawling into the space between Tetsurou’s outstretched arm and the warmth of the blanket. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good morning,” Tetsurou says during a lull in Koushi’s story about how Daichi—his boyfriend of two years—had bought him what Koushi believes is the worst coffee in Japan. “Sleep well?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who are you talking to?” Koushi cuts in before Kenma can answer, his lightly accented English clear over the phone. “Where are you, Tetsu-tetsu?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At my apartment,” Tetsurou replies easily, nodding at his coffee mug so that Kenma can at least have lukewarm coffee while he sits here, eavesdropping on a conversation Tetsurou isn’t entirely positive he can pick up the nuances of. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You didn’t answer my question, who is with you?” This time the words are spoken in Japanese, and Tetsurou spies Kenma looking away uninterested out of the corner of his eye. In the back of his mind, Tetsurou is thankful his father taught him Japanese from the get-go. Kenma’s mother had refused to teach her son their shared mother tongue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Long story,” Tetsurou responds in kind, fingers tapping a tuneless rhythm on the exposed skin of Kenma’s arm. “I have an old friend with me right now, but that would take too long to explain. Remind me later.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your coffee is cold,” Kenma speaks softly, golden eyes flicking up to meet Tetsurou’s for just a moment before staring down at the half-filled mug. Tetsurou can spy a pout on his lips and has to physically restrain himself from pressing the tips of his fingers against the coffee-wet pink of Kenma’s pretty mouth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then heat it up, you have legs.” He grumbles. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Comfortable. Warm.” Kenma says with a sense of finality. His shoulders droop as he sighs, raising Tetsurou’s abandoned coffee mug to his lips. “It’s fine.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tetsurou is still laughing to himself when he actually hears a splash of water. Huh, maybe Koushi was taking a bath in New York. “You sound busy,” his friend states, in English again. “I’m in town for a couple months this time, we should catch up.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, you’ll be around for New Year’s?” Briefly, he thinks about inviting Koushi over for Thanksgiving dinner, because who knows if he and Keiji were going to be on speaking terms within the next three weeks, but Thanksgiving was always for his college friends. If anything, he would see Koushi another time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, yes, but Daichi is flying out here a few days before Christmas. Going to show him New York, you know. The tourist life. Fine dining, smelly subways—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good coffee.” Tetsurou interrupts, laughing when Koushi squawks over the line. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck, yes good coffee, half the coffee in Japan sucks, I hate it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re just picky,” Tetsurou says, flinching when Kenma moves to press further along the line of Tetsurou’s body. “You own A Loutte, of course, you know what good coffee tastes like.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A two-toned hum is the only answer Tetsurou gets to his words, followed by a few more splashes and a quiet oops before Koushi replies. “Yeah, maybe I’ll take him to A Loutte. Make him deal with Tobio for a few hours while I do the rounds with Kiyoko.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Te—” Kenma cuts in, stopping before the first syllable can make it out his mouth. Tetsurou feels his blood run cold at the sound, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he peels them open. Belatedly he realizes Kenma is staring at him and Koushi is calling his name over the line, a worried mixture of Japanese and English spilling from the other line. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” Tetsurou replies to Koushi, or to Kenma. He’s not really sure who needs the reassurance more—more than him, that is—but let his muscles relax back into the couch. “I’m fine, Koushi. Promise.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure? A real promise, right? Not those promises you made when we worked under my uncle and you said ‘yes Koushi, I promise to get sleep’ before you pulled an all-nighter and passed out in the backstock during the lunch rush?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How…” Tetsurou barks out a startled laugh, Koushi’s scolding recalling a specific memory that Tetsurou hadn’t realized he forgot. “How did you remember that, and I don’t?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Because sleep deprivation ruins your memory,” Koushi states matter of fact. “But you promise right? I have to clean up the apartment today, but you’re welcome to stop by anyway.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I promise, I’m fine. I gotta go now but promise to catch up later this week. We can bother Tobio together, yeah?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This time its Koushi who laughs, the sound melodic even through the digitized airwaves. “You’re hiding something from me, Kuroo Tetsurou, and I will pry it out of you when I see you this week,” he says sweetly in Japanese, despite his words being vaguely threatening. “But I will talk to you later. Say good-bye to your friend for me.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The call clicks before Tetsurou can get another word in. “Well,” he says to no one. Maybe to Kenma, but Kenma has not dared to look at him since he decided to cause Tetsurou a minor heart problem. Tetsurou pulls the phone from his face, the screen already black, and lets it fall carelessly into his lap. “Do you want breakfast?” he asks Kenma. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wordlessly, Kenma nods. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>Perhaps, Tetsurou muses, a cup of coffee is not the answer to all his problems. He repeats this to himself even as he swallows a mouthful of the now tepid liquid in his mug. His eye twitches, a sudden tug of his facial muscles that make it look more like a wink than anything else. Though if the muscle spasm is from exhaustion, his general addiction to caffeine, or the stress of the situation at hand, Tetsurou doesn’t know. </p>
<p>Across from Tetsurou, sits a young man one year his junior, a cup of equally tepid coffee cradled between slender fingers. Only a few feet of dark finished wood separate the two of them, and yet Tetsurou feels the distance as if it were miles. </p>
<p>Tetsurou wonders if maybe tequila would have been a better choice of drink, drinking at three in the afternoon isn’t frowned upon. A simple shot to relax the muscles. </p>
<p>And possibly to ease the dark cloud of tension so thick Tetsurou can feel the humidity of it brush along the hairs of his arm. </p>
<p>A muted cough breaks Tetsurou of his thoughts, his gaze dragging back to stare at the man in front of him. Miles away, inches away. So close, yet far enough that Tetsurou is physically unable to reach across the distance and wrap his hands around the other’s neck. </p>
<p>He’s not entirely sure if he would do such a thing but given that two weeks ago Tetsurou was hell-bent on erasing Keiji from his short-term memory, Tetsurou wouldn’t put it past himself. Tetsurou watches as Keiji parts his lips, tongue wetting his bottom lip before those same lips pull into a mockery of a smile. </p>
<p>“So,” Keiji starts, grip tightening around his mug. Tetsurou can’t help but keep his gaze steady on Keiji’s face, noticing the way Keiji refuses to meet his stare. Uncharacteristic, but understandable, Tetsurou notes with vindictive glee. </p>
<p>Glee that, if he were to dissect, is ultimately baseless. He has no reason to be gleeful at Keiji’s obvious discomfort. If he were to think about it, truly, Tetsurou would find that behind the veneer of smug amusement he is saddened that their countless years of friendship have boiled down to this moment. </p>
<p>Keiji does not finish his sentence, opting to take another swallow of coffee that Tetsurou definitely made too strong for Keiji’s taste. This was, of course, not on purpose. He and Keiji simply had different tastes in coffee, to begin with. It was not like Tetsurou had planned for Keiji to show up at Tetsurou’s apartment at two in the afternoon, with barely a warning from Koutarou about the impending doom that was to descend upon Tetsurou’s humble apartment. </p>
<p>Thankfully, Kenma had left for work an hour before, citing his need to meet up with a friend before his shift started. Tetsurou knew Kenma kept many things from him, yet the sparkle in Kenma’s eyes as he spoke of his so-called friend kept him from asking any further questions. Maybe he’ll regret that later, but getting Kenma to trust him was a work in progress, though it often brought up the question of if Tetsurou trusted him in return. </p>
<p>But that situation was neither here nor there, and certainly not a topic of conversation he plans on entertaining with current company. Not now, at least. </p>
<p>Keiji’s unfinished sentence aside, the only words the two of them had spoken to each other in the hour since Tetsurou opened his door to find Keiji standing in the hallway as if he wanted a cup of coffee. </p>
<p>And now that Keiji’s poor attempt at starting a conversation fell flat, Tetsurou figures that the ball is in his court now. A part of him doesn’t want this responsibility, doesn’t want this conversation or the forgiveness that will follow. It’s safer where he is, licking his surface wounds full of hurt. Unwilling to pull the glass buried in the wounds in fear that Tetsurou won’t like what he finds. </p>
<p>“How’s work been?” Tetsurou says on an exhale. Alcohol would have been a better conversation starter. He should have just asked Keiji if he wanted to do a few shots before they dared to speak to each other. Now, the two of them are stuck with adrenaline and caffeine running through their veins. </p>
<p>Something in Keiji’s expression thaws at the words, his mouth pulling into a close-lipped smile as he fixes his gaze to whatever sits inside the mug still between his hands. “Fine,” he replies lightly, one finger tapping against the ceramic. “Lev hasn’t had any major mistakes yet. He seems more fond of working with Koutarou and Konoha’s departments rather than mine.”</p>
<p>Despite the somber feeling settled uncomfortably around them, Tetsurou can’t help the laugh that spills into the air. Anger does not dim his knowledge about Keiji as a person, and Tetsurou can easily spot the hidden whine in his friend’s voice that Lev dreads working under Keiji’s management. </p>
<p>It makes sense, a fact that Keiji more than likely understands. Project managing has never been easy, and Keiji especially is prone to running himself to the ground to ensure that all parties involved in the publishing process have ample time to get their work done before sending the work off to the next department. The only other project manager that holds a candle to Keiji’s work ethic, Tetsurou notes with a dry snort, is probably Morisuke. Lev avoiding Keiji’s management in favor of the other two senior team leads wasn’t all that shocking. It seemed Lev needed a change of pace.</p>
<p>“I’m not surprised,” Tetsurou says, the smile pulling at his lips too large to be considered genuine. Did he say that a shot of tequila would have been a better choice? Honestly, at this point, it would take half a bottle of vodka—straight—before he truly would be ready for this conversation. </p>
<p>No, it’s not even the conversation Tetsurou is dreading. At the end of the day, Tetsurou knows the two of them—well into their thirties—have had enough fights to know how to apologize. Tetsurou is no stranger to the action, especially when it comes to apologizing to Keiji. In a friendship as long as theirs, as close as theirs, Tetsurou has long lost count of the times Koutarou has forced them into a room until their apologies spill from their lips. Neither was unfamiliar with crossing the other’s lines, good intentions or not. </p>
<p>No, no, Tetsurou knew that the apology, at its core, would be the easy part. It is not the apology that makes Tetsurou shift in his seat, muscles tensed as if ready for flight. Tetsurou knows, when Keiji apologizes, the next step is to sit and unwrap why Keiji was so inclined to dig his nails into still raw wounds.</p>
<p>And that—</p>
<p>Perhaps the silence stretched too long, or maybe Keiji took note of the way Tetsurou’s grip was steadily tightening against the black ceramic of his coffee mug. Either way, Tetsurou is wholly unprepared for the words out of Keiji’s mouth, despite the knowledge that it is the entire reason Keiji appeared at his doorstep in the first place. </p>
<p>“I came to apologize.” The world does not stop as Keiji speaks those words into existence. It does not stop when Keiji removes one hand from around his mug to run those slender fingers through his hair. The seconds continue to tick by even as Keiji calmly meets Tetsurou’s panicked stare. “Tetsurou,” Keiji says, exasperation coloring Tetsurou’s name. </p>
<p>Fortunately, it does the job at dragging Tetsurou to the present, though does nothing to quell the pounding in his chest. “I know,” he manages to force through the lump in his throat. </p>
<p>Knowing that Keiji came to apologize, and the history of the two of them having been in similar positions does not make the act of being apologized to any easier, Tetsurou notes with thinly veiled hysteria. In this situation, he muses, perhaps his previous knowledge makes the current situation worse. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry, what I said that night was out of line,” Keiji’s voice is thick, with nerves or with another unnamed emotion, Tetsurou isn’t sure. “I am unable to take back what I have said to Kenma, but I do not want to lie to you and say that I did not mean my words.” </p>
<p>Tetsurou removes his hands from around his coffee mug, opting to dig his nails into his palm instead. A distraction, a grounding reminder that he is in his apartment and not lost in his spiraling thoughts. </p>
<p>That could come later, Tetsurou promises to himself. He first just has to make it through Keiji’s apology. </p>
<p>“However, my words came from misplaced anger and frustration over a situation Kenma was likely unaware of. I apologize for taking that anger out on him, it was wrong of me.” Keiji does not continue with who he should be directing his anger towards, and Tetsurou has enough self-preservation to not ask. Nothing would come of it regardless. They both knew the real reasons behind Keiji’s outburst.</p>
<p>Releasing his bottom lip from between his teeth, Tetsurou barely gets a word out before Keiji pins him with a look that makes Tetsurou’s teeth clack together. </p>
<p>“It was not my intention to throw your issues with,” Keiji makes a vague motion with his hand, brows scrunching together. “Kenma’s disappearance—I guess—into either of your faces. I would like to apologize for that as well.” In a softer voice, Keiji continues. “I hope my actions did not cause any unnecessary problems between the two of you.”</p>
<p>Tetsurou hates the part of him that entertains the idea of not forgiving Keiji. Hates that forgiveness never came easily to him, not in many years. It was different, he muses, when he was seven, ten, fourteen, when the worst that had ever happened to him was the countless times Kenma accidentally caused him to die in a game or the even more numerous times Tetsurou was woken with a knee to some sensitive part of his body. </p>
<p>He especially loathes the part of him that dreads accepting Keiji’s apology simply to delay the inner workings of his own mind, to ignore—just for a little longer—the issue that has been shoved to the back of Tetsurou’s mind more times than he is willing to admit. </p>
<p>Forgiveness, at its core, had left Tetsurou within the first few months of Kenma’s disappearance. Long after he had searched his room top to bottom for a sign—a note, anything—that Kenma was returning to him, that Kenma was waiting for him elsewhere. Forgiveness died curled around the last pieces of hope nestled in Tetsurou’s heart—barely seventeen—when Kenma’s father refused to look for his 'good for nothing’ son, when Tetsurou’s parents were quick to label Kenma a problem child. </p>
<p>But forgiveness, when it came to Keiji, came as easy as breathing. </p>
<p>Maybe it was because in their college days. Tetsurou needed the crutch. The illusion of a no-nonsense caretaker to be the bitter balm to Tetsurou’s self-inflicted wounds. Forgiving Keiji is as instinctive as breathing; an unconscious decision that Tetsurou never has to think about. </p>
<p>No, it is not forgiving Keiji that Tetsurou fears, it is what comes after.  </p>
<p>Still, Tetsurou does not voice these thoughts out loud, content to let the silence stretch for a while longer. He knows that Keiji is aware that Tetsurou will always welcome him back, that Tetsurou needs Keiji more than many other things on this planet. A friendship built partly on mutual dependence, partially on the foundation of unwavering trust. For even in moments like this—where Tetsurou has struggled with the anger of Keiji’s actions—there are not many other people Tetsurou trusts to handle the secrets he keeps. </p>
<p>“If,” Tetsurou starts, mouth forming around the word slowly, perhaps in fear that if he is not careful his words will run away from him before he’s able to catch up. “If there is one thing Kenma and I are good at, it is not bringing up issues.”</p>
<p>There’s a rueful tilt to Keiji’s mouth at Tetsurou’s words, an irony that Tetsurou notices between the boy he lost at sixteen and the boy he tried to shove into Kenma’s place. So similar on the surface, but looking back on it, Tetsurou wonders. </p>
<p>He just. He wonders. </p>
<p>Across from Tetsurou, sits a young man one year his junior, a cup of coffee long gone cold cradled carefully between his palms. Only a few feet of dark finished wood separates Tetsurou’s friend from himself, and yet—when Tetsurou notices the slow-growing smile blooming across Keiji’s face—Tetsurou feels the distance has never been smaller.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Three hundred and sixty-five days ago, Tetsurou remembers standing in the entryway of his apartment, phone in hand as the date read November 20th, just a few days away from Thanksgiving—just a few days after his birthday. Tetsurou can recall the minor panic that back then he did not have the time to rush to A Loutte, neither for his personal work nor in hopes of sitting down with Kenma for a few precious hours. </p>
<p>One year ago, Tetsurou did not think of Kenma as part of his present or future. A blimp, a mistake that Fate accidentally let the two of them collide. A chance meeting that was not supposed to happen. Tetsurou was not supposed to have said yes that night, and Kenma shouldn’t have followed Tetsurou to A Loutte all those weeks later. </p>
<p>But Tetsurou did say yes. And Kenma showed up, nervous and shaky and so unlike the silently defiant Kenma in Tetsurou’s memories. </p>
<p>Today, a full sun rotation from November 20th to November 20th, Tetsurou does not stand in the foyer of his own apartment, unable to tell if he wished for Kenma’s presence in his life to disappear for good, or if he was willing to cling to the weak bond the two of them forged in the stolen hours between work and sleep in a small college café in the middle of New York City. </p>
<p>No, today Tetsurou sits on his couch, hands gripping his knees as he stares at Kenma, who is standing in the entryway of Tetsurou’s apartment, a defiant gleam in his eyes that boasts the courage that Kenma’s body language fails to communicate. </p>
<p>“Come again?” Tetsurou says, in what he knows is the most eloquent way he possibly could have done, given the circumstances.</p>
<p>See, for a second, Tetsurou really thought Kenma had said—</p>
<p>“I want to come to Thanksgiving with you.” Kenma repeats. Tetsurou watches a furrow appear between his brows, notices the downward pull of Kenma’s lips, and wonders. </p>
<p>“Why?” Surely Kenma knows, Tetsurou is well aware that he has shared many Thanksgiving stories with Kenma over the various drunken tales that happen when Tetsurou and his two best friends gather for a joint celebration of Tetsurou’s birthday and a national holiday that is only celebrated as an excuse to get drunk and relax. So, why does Kenma wish to put himself in a situation with Keiji? Especially after the last horrific meeting, Tetsurou doesn’t understand. </p>
<p>“Do you not want me there?” Kenma questions, golden eyes observing Tetsurou curiously. Kenma’s still bundled up in one of Tetsurou’s old sweaters, sleeves falling past the tips of his fingers, cheeks dusted red from his trek to the apartment. Tetsurou pities that Kenma must deal with the weather today—bitterly cold late fall wind whipping the last of the leaves off their trees, leaving them bare until spring. “Would I make it worse again?”</p>
<p>Tetsurou is not a particularly weak man, though he is not entirely sure if he could call himself strong either. How could he consider himself strong when the mere idea of Kenma being alone for a holiday celebration when Tetsurou easily can just say yes and bring Kenma along with him. </p>
<p>Would I make it worse, is a question Tetsurou cannot answer, is not sure if he wants to know the answer. Why would he? Why would Kenma want to come when the last time he interacted with Keiji, Keiji all but shoved a butter knife into the space between Kenma’s rib, eyes as cold as the metal embedded in Kenma’s chest? Why would Kenma wish to put himself in a position that would allow Keiji a greater foothold? </p>
<p>“I’ll talk to Koutarou.” Tetsurou finally manages to answer, noticing the subtle drop of tension in Kenma’s shoulders. It is only then that Kenma starts to strip off his scarf, seemingly pleased with Tetsurou’s response. </p>
<p>Tetsurou, in true holiday fashion, does not remember to ask Koutarou the next day. Nor does he remember to ask the day after that. In fact, Tetsurou is pretty sure he wouldn’t have asked as all if it were not for Koushi messaging him in the middle of lunch with Keiji and Koutarou, a simple text of Happy belated birthday, and early Thanksgiving!</p>
<p>“Oh shit,” Tetsurou says to his phone, quickly typing out a thank you as the conversation between Koutarou and Keiji dies around him.</p>
<p>“You good, bro?” Koutarou asks, his hand coming to rest between Tetsurou’s shoulder blades. Gently, at least, unlike the countless other times Tetsurou has wondered when the day of Koutarou slamming his spine out will stop being a dreaded nightmare and become a reality. </p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah,” Tetsurou replies, trying to organize his mind into a singular coherent thought. It’s not working and the more Tetsurou tries to wrangle his thoughts together the worse they seem to scatter. Looking up he spots Keiji staring at him from across the table, catching the raise of his eyebrow as Keiji takes a bite of his salad and points the fork at Tetsurou. Tetsurou doubts that the action is meant to be as threatening as it looks, but having any sharp and potentially dangerous object pointed at him by Keiji is an acceptable reason to feel fear. “It’s just that, Kenma asked if he could come to Thanksgiving.” </p>
<p>If it were not for the constant hum of the break room’s refrigerator, Tetsurou would have been able to hear a pin drop. Even Koutarou, who seems to always have some sort of noise coming from his person, is silent next to Tetsurou, hand sliding away from Tetsurou’s back. </p>
<p>“Oh,” Keiji says, eyes wide as he swallows. “Oh, well then.” </p>
<p>“Thanksgiving?” Koutarou manages to choke out, coughing once as the words catch in his throat. “In two days?” </p>
<p>“No, Koutarou, the Thanksgiving in two months,” Keiji deadpans, this time pointing his fork in his boyfriend’s direction. When Koutarou looks appropriately cowed at Keiji’s unwavering stare, Keiji swings the fork to point it once more at Tetsurou. “Why?” </p>
<p>Tetsurou throws up one hand, matching Keiji’s confused stare with one of his own. “Do I look like I know? I didn’t think he wanted anything to do with you!” </p>
<p>“I wouldn’t if I was Kenma,” Koutarou pipes up, raising both hands in front of him when Keiji’s stare goes from panicked to exasperated in three seconds flat. “No offense, Keiji.” </p>
<p>“Exactly,” Tetsurou agrees with a nod of his head. “You have to admit that any sane person would not want to have a repeat of whatever hell hole Keiji put us all in last month, but Kenma asked me if he was allowed…I said I would ask, so.” </p>
<p>“So, this is you asking?” Keiji’s eyes narrow, fingers tightening around his fork and for a moment, Tetsurou truly believes that Keiji is going to stab the metal into the plastic of their lunch table. Instead, he deals with the aggressive stabbing of salad and a grating sound of teeth on metal as Keiji shoves another bite of food into his mouth.</p>
<p>“Babe,” Koutarou starts, his voice halfway between laughter and concern. “We can say no, you know that, right?” </p>
<p>“Of course we can say no,” Keiji says around his bite of salad, ignoring his own rule of not talking with his mouth full. Tetsurou doesn’t even think Keiji realizes he’s done it. “But am I going to say no?” </p>
<p>There is something to be said about the dynamic between Tetsurou and his two longest-standing friends. In another life, a separate universe not so different from their current one, maybe it would be Keiji that Tetsurou fell in love with. Perhaps, in another life, Kenma’s disappearance didn’t weigh so heavily on Tetsurou’s conscious, allowing him to experience romance untethered to a fading memory of a broken boy Tetsurou once knew. There is something to be said about the dread present in Keiji’s eyes, visible only to those who know where to look. </p>
<p>“You can say no,” Tetsurou reaches across the table, tapping two fingers against the back of Keiji’s hand, wrapped too tight around his fork. “You won’t, but you can.” </p>
<p>Keiji gives Tetsurou the smallest of nods, grip unrelenting around the metal utensil. If this were Koutarou, Tetsurou would have long extracted the fork from his friend’s grip. But with Keiji’s nervous tick of needing to do something with his hands, Tetsurou lets the issue lie. </p>
<p>“You’re worried. Why?” Tetsurou wishes the distance between himself and Keiji were shorter, perhaps so he could easily reach across and run his fingers through Keiji’s hair, dragging his friend from whatever mental image he has playing through his mind. Tetsurou settles for knocking the side of his foot against Keiji’s shin to get his attention.</p>
<p>“I am unsure if I can handle Kenma. Again.” Keiji confesses, looking up from where his stare was fixated on the table to look at Koutarou and Tetsurou in turn. “Not without a repeat of last month, at the least.” </p>
<p>“Just don’t be an asshole, simple.” Belatedly, Tetsurou realizes they are in the middle of their lunch hour, in the office, with—he taps his phone awake to check the time—a solid fifteen minutes left before they have to go back to their desks. “If you don’t want to do it, fine, but I really don’t think you’ll say no.” </p>
<p>It takes a moment, but Keiji finally nods his consent, a petulant frown on his lips. “If something happens—” </p>
<p>Tetsurou’s laugh interrupts the second half of Keiji’s statement, and this time he doesn’t hesitate to lean across the table and tap the tip of Keiji’s nose, lips pulled into a gentle smile. “Oh, Keiji,” Tetsurou patronizes, giving Keiji’s nose another tap just to see his friend’s eyes narrow. “You’re too smart to make the same mistake twice.” </p>
<hr/>
<p>Thanksgiving is not Thanksgiving without at least two bottles of wine, in Tetsurou’s humble opinion. And with the potential for yet another ruined dinner looming over Tetsurou, he easily doubles the amount of wine needed. So long as they are drunk, surely a repeat won’t happen. Whether that means it goes better or worse, well, that’s simply up to Keiji. </p>
<p>Two days ago, sitting in the break room with Keiji’s uncharacteristically wide eyes trained on Tetsurou, Keiji had accepted the idea of Kenma accompanying Tetsurou to their annual Thanksgiving dinner. A dinner that, prior to this year, had only been composed of the three of them. On his way home that evening, Tetsurou wondered if it was at all possible to tell Kenma that Keiji said no, that Koutarou and he were not comfortable with the idea of Kenma in their home. If nothing else, tell Kenma that it wasn’t because Keiji hated it, but rather felt the environment would be too much for Kenma. This thought was entertained from the front door of their office building to the moment Tetsurou walked into his apartment complex, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. </p>
<p>If Kenma hadn’t been home, Tetsurou wonders if he would have convinced himself to follow through with this. That the denial of this one thing could possibly set boundaries between them, a clear line where Kenma was not welcome. That the life Tetsurou lived was one with Kenma and one without Kenma, and they did not overlap. Even now, on the subway with Kenma seated next to him, Tetsurou thinks that it’s still not too late to turn around. </p>
<p>But, in reality, Tetsurou knows this isn’t true. The pie settled in Kenma’s lap, bought from a local bakery, is proof of this. A year without a sweet potato casserole, a year with an extra person, an anomaly to every other Thanksgiving in the past decade and a half. </p>
<p>Apple pie had been Kenma’s idea after Tetsurou lamented that work was hectic and the idea of slaving away on the usual sweet potato casserole instead of precious few extra hours of sleep was enough to bring him close to tears. Kenma suggested an apple pie instead, and that it would be his contribution—as Tetsurou was still bringing wine—a peace offering of sorts, to Keiji. It wasn’t until Kenma returned yesterday evening with an apple pie in his hands that Tetsurou believed he was going to do it. Kenma had explained that while it was mostly cooked, the baker recommended that they put it in the oven to warm before eating. </p>
<p>Thinking about it now, Tetsurou wonders how the hell Kenma acquired an apple pie so quickly. Did he assume Keiji would say yes to Tetsurou and order a pie to be picked up last week? There was no bakery logo, just a pie in a tin container nestled between an ever-familiar cardboard container like the pies in the grocery store. It seemed wrong to ask Kenma where exactly he got the pie, intrusive in a way Tetsurou couldn’t put his finger on, so he just let it go. </p>
<p>Be it because of the crowded subway car, or because silence is Kenma’s first language, but their commute passes with little conversation. Unlike their dinner a month ago, Kenma doesn’t seem to hold any tension in the lines of his shoulders, lips parting in a hard exhale as the two of them finally make it up the countless steps from the metro to the city streets. </p>
<p>“Escalators would be so nice,” Tetsurou comments as he guides the two of them down a little street—a shortcut to Keiji and Koutarou’s complex—his own breath puffing out unevenly.</p>
<p>“They would be,” Kenma agrees, eyes trained on the pie held between his hands. Tetsurou had only seen it once, last night when Kenma stepped around him to open the fridge, the clear plastic top showing off thin strips of pie crust interwoven together with such precision that whoever the baker was had to have had one of the steadiest hands known to man. </p>
<p>Upon arrival to Keiji and Koutarou’s apartment, Tetsurou gives a singular knock before digging his keys out of his pocket, unlocking the door with a turn of his wrist. “We have arrived!” he announces as he and Kenma step into their tiny foyer. </p>
<p>Unlike the year before, there is no fresh paint smell clinging to the walls and as Tetsurou toes off his shoes, he notices that what was once a cream couch has now been covered in a gray couch cover. Tetsurou wonders how many stains lie underneath. </p>
<p>Stepping further into the house, Tetsurou shrugs off the bag on his shoulder and plucks a wine from its depths. “Follow me,” he says to Kenma, who is still loitering just outside of the foyer area, eyes wandering around the room. </p>
<p>With Kenma trailing a step behind him, Tetsurou makes his way to the kitchen, eyebrow raised when he finds Koutarou stabbing a very fancy-looking meat thermometer into a honey-baked ham. </p>
<p>“Oh?” he says in greeting, “I didn’t realize there would be ham this year. Or any year really.” The last time they had ham was five years ago, when Tetsurou got accepted into the company as an editor instead of just an author. It had gone…decently, but at the end of the night they had all agreed that such a large portion of meat for only three people was a waste of physical—and in Keiji’s words, emotional—labor, so they never tried to get a ham or turkey after that. </p>
<p>“Well,” Keiji begins from where he sits on the counter, legs crossed and one hand resting flat against the counter. To his right sits an empty bottle of wine, Keiji’s lips are slick, wine-stained, and kiss-slicked, though Keiji holds himself proper as if neither of these things bears meaning to him. Tetsurou watches as Keiji flicks his gaze to Tetsurou briefly before settling on Kenma, gunmetal gray eyes calculating as his mouth pulls into a haughty grin. “This is a year of new things, it seems.” </p>
<p>Now, it seems seeing Keiji in the flesh is enough for Kenma to tense next to him, and while Tetsurou doesn’t dare to make sure that Kenma is okay, he does notice the way Keiji’s eyes narrow for just a second before his lips stretch into a wider grin. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” Kenma says suddenly, stepping forward into the kitchen and a fraction closer to Keiji than Tetsurou is, “for allowing me to come.” He holds out the pie like an offering to a god, his head bowing slightly in deference. The action jolts Tetsurou into action, foot barely off the ground to step between Keiji and Kenma, to be a mediator, a buffer, anything, but the look Keiji cuts towards him, metal glinting in the light of the kitchen, freezes Tetsurou in place. </p>
<p>It is not his battle, Tetsurou realizes. Even Koutarou has slowed his movements, meeting Tetsurou’s gaze with a wide grin, his lips also red slick. If the situation didn’t resemble Kenma kneeling to a throne that Keiji sits on, Tetsurou would comment on the matching red tint to their lips. He doesn’t, but the quirked eyebrow he sends Koutarou way has his best friend repressing a laugh. </p>
<p>In front of him, Keiji’s eyes have lost the arrogant glint to them, the tilt of his grin dying the longer Kenma holds the pie out in front of him, gold eyes cast down. “I didn’t…” Keiji blinks once, then twice, face twisting into something Tetsurou cannot begin to describe. Between two languages and a writing career, Tetsurou does not believe he has the ability to accurately define the anguish painted across Keiji’s face. “I did not allow anything. Tetsurou asked my permission, there was no reason for me to say no.” This time, when Keiji yanks his stare from Kenma to Tetsurou, they do not shine with that arrogant veneer Keiji is so good at adopting. Instead, they are wide, panicked and questioning. As if Tetsurou knows what’s going on. As if Tetsurou could help him now.</p>
<p>“Still,” Kenma says, unmoving from his position. “You could have.” </p>
<p>Unable to watch Keiji for a second longer, Tetsurou turns back to Koutarou, slowly inching over a step. He holds up the bottle of wine, lips silently mouthing bottle opener. Thankfully, Koutarou gets the message and in a brazen disregard for the uncomfortably formal feeling in the room, walks between Keiji and Kenma to remove the bottle opener magnet from the fridge.</p>
<p>“Sorry!” Koutarou chirps the second time he walks between them, the smile on his face betraying the lack of sincerity. He makes his way back to Tetsurou, pulling him to a clear space on the counter so they could open the bottle of wine, the muted pop loud in the otherwise quiet kitchen.</p>
<p>Tetsurou feels that Keiji and Koutarou might have been onto something with that empty bottle; even with the four bottles he’s brought, there is a large possibility that they would break into Keiji’s stash just to get through the evening. </p>
<p>“Stop, please,” Tetsurou hears Keiji say, words softer than the tone he used just minutes ago. He doesn’t dare look over, pressing the lip of the wine bottle and letting the bitter red wine slosh down his throat. It seems easier, to swallow mouthful after mouthful of wine, than to look in on whatever game Keiji tried and failed to play with Kenma. Perhaps Tetsurou should have warned Keiji that no one plays games better than Kenma does, though it did not seem like a warning Keiji would have needed, before now. “Kenma. Look up,” Keiji orders, voice dark. </p>
<p>Tetsurou’s gaze yanks up, a knee-jerk reaction to both the tone and the words that fall out of Keiji’s mouth. He finds that at some point between the pop of the cork and Tetsurou downing half a bottle of wine, the distance between Keiji and Kenma has shrunk—from a few feet to mere inches. The pie now lies safely to Keiji’s left, a corner of the cardboard box pressing into Keiji’s thigh. Normally, none of this would be a cause of concern, but Tetsurou knows Keiji almost as well as he knows himself. Even from here, across the kitchen with a bottle of wine in his grasp, Tetsurou can see the way Keiji’s eyes flash white-hot, the curl of his lips bordering between sardonic and enraged. If it weren’t for the deep furrow between his eyebrows and the way Keiji’s hand is shaking, Tetsurou would worry about an actual murder. Instead, Tetsurou watches in frozen fear as Keiji’s hand closes the distance between himself and Kenma, index finger curling under Kenma’s chin to tilt it upwards, nail digging into the soft flesh.</p>
<p>“I said,” Keiji enunciates, legs uncrossing to lean closer to Kenma, his free hand pressed flat against the sliver of counter space between his legs. Koutarou grabs the bottle from Tetsurou’s lax grip, the sound of one hard swallow audible following seconds later. “Look at me.”</p>
<p>Tetsurou can see the way Kenma tenses, shoulders drawing halfway to his neck before Kenma rolls them back. Even still, his forced calm is betrayed by the way Kenma’s hand curls tight around Keiji’s wrist, fingers digging into the skin. From here, Tetsurou can see the pink of Kenma’s scars and the marks do not escape Keiji’s notice either, eyes widening a fraction. </p>
<p>“Are you listening?” Keiji’s words are woven with steel, the cool calm of each syllable spelling out a command, rather than a question. </p>
<p>“He’s so hot, isn’t he?” Koutarou comments under his breath, as if Keiji can’t hear them from seven feet away. </p>
<p>Despite himself, Tetsurou snorts, eyes rolling at his best friend’s comment. He muffles the sound when cold eyes slide from Kenma to scowl at Tetsurou, one dark eyebrow raising in question before returning his steely stare to Kenma.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Kenma answers, fingers tightening around Keiji’s wrist, the skin growing red where Kenma’s nails start to bite into the skin. Kenma doesn't loosen his grip, and Keiji either does not notice the pain or he pays no mind to it. </p>
<p>“You are important to Tetsurou, are you not?” Keiji asks, voice firm despite the lack of volume. </p>
<p>Kenma nods, as much as he can, given Keiji’s finger tucked under his chin.</p>
<p>“Then, why would I say no? Do you think I'm selfish enough to deny Tetsurou?” Keiji gives a low hum, head tilting to the side before he releases Kenma and leans back. Crossing his legs once more, Keiji folds his hands together, resting them in on his knee. Tetsurou notices the slow inhale Keiji takes, tongue darting out to wet his lips before speaking again. “My personal misgivings aside, so long as you are important to Tetsurou, you will be welcome here.” </p>
<p>Tetsurou knows Keiji will not apologize, not to Kenma. Perhaps it’s his pride that won’t allow it, though Tetsurou guesses that isn’t the case. Keiji is more prideful than many people take him for, but he is quick to apologize for his mistakes. No, there is something else preventing Keiji from a true apology, and while Tetsurou knows it will not happen, the reasons escape him. </p>
<p>“Thank you,” Keiji says after a beat, the steel in his eyes softening as his wine-red mouth splits into another smile, small but genuine. “For coming. And for the pie. I’m sure it will be delicious.” </p>
<p>“I—” Kenma stares at Keiji a moment longer before whipping his head to stare at Tetsurou, golden eyes wild. When Tetsurou does nothing more than yank the half-empty bottle of wine from Koutarou’s grip, Kenma turns back to Keiji. “You’re welcome.” </p>
<p>Satisfied, Keiji turns to stare at Koutarou, the smile on his lips melting into something more indulgent. Koutarou laughs, leaving Tetsurou’s side with another comment about how sexy Keiji is to cross what is less than ten feet to Keiji’s side, pressing a kiss against his temple. </p>
<p>“Right,” Tetsurou says blinking, mind still trying to wrap around the image of Keiji grinning down at Kenma, long fingers curled under his chin and yanking it up. It settles hot in his stomach, but Tetsurou pretends it is the wine instead. “Well to make up for no sweet potatoes this year—” </p>
<p>“Thank god,” Koutarou interrupts, laughter bubbling up even as Keiji pinches his side. </p>
<p>“Anyways,” Tetsurou stresses with an eye roll. “I brought more wine. Though…” he eyes the almost empty bottle and shakes it a bit. “There’s only three bottles now.” </p>
<p>“That’s alright,” Keiji says after a moment, hopping off the counter with a grace that neither Koutarou nor Tetsurou have. “Another bottle before dinner should be fine, and then two during.” </p>
<p>Tetsurou wants to laugh at the surprise on Kenma’s face, but instead just slides next to him, letting his fingers brush along Kenma’s arm. “You good?” he asks, though if he means in general or in reference to Keiji’s aggressive welcome, Tetsurou isn’t sure. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Kenma says, a little dazed. His stare trails after Keiji as the other man shoos Koutarou out of the kitchen with a dishtowel. “Three bottles?” </p>
<p>“Tetsurou,” Keiji calls over his shoulder before Tetsurou could think to respond to Kenma. “Wine.” </p>
<p>Unable to stop himself, Tetsurou laughs, free hand patting Kenma’s shoulder as he moves across the kitchen to hand Keiji what’s left of the wine. Muttering thanks, Keiji tips the rest back, lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle. Tetsurou, though used to such a display, still finds the action hot. </p>
<p>There’s just something inherently erotic about Keiji when he drinks straight from the wine bottle, so sue him. </p>
<p>Kenma, on the other hand, is very much not used to seeing Keiji do such a thing. In fact, Tetsurou recalls that Keiji did not drink at their disastrous dinner at Oregano’s, preferring to have an iced tea as the establishment. They did have good iced teas.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Kenma blurts out, gold eyes curious as he stares at Keiji. “Oh, that’s—” </p>
<p>“Kenma!” Koutarou shouts from the living room, his voice shattering the thin moment between Kenma and Keiji. “Do you game?” </p>
<p>Tetsurou half wants to answer for Kenma, to say that no, Kenma doesn’t game. It would be a lie, but the memories of years long gone do not need to be dragged to the surface, no matter how accidental they may be. He realizes then, that despite Koutarou and Keiji knowing of Kenma’s existence, and in turn what his disappearance did to Tetsurou, they know very little about Kenma. Tetsurou never thought to tell them, careful to hold the good memories of their childhood close to his heart. Wonders if maybe, he should have sat them both down earlier and warned them of things to not bring up, or talk about. </p>
<p>But, when Tetsurou chances a glance at Kenma, muscles ready to waltz into the other room and drag Koutarou to the bedroom for a conversation, he sees Kenma has the smallest of smiles playing at the corners of his lips. He catches Tetsurou’s stare, eyes unreadable. Tetsurou’s not sure what to make of that. </p>
<p>“I don’t have time,” Kenma says, though when Koutarou shouts that he’s unable to hear Kenma, Tetsurou watches as his former—current?—childhood friend heaves a sigh, walking out of the kitchen to indulge Koutarou in conversation. </p>
<p>Just seconds after Kenma leaves the kitchen, Keiji drops his head against Tetsurou’s shoulder, his sigh just loud enough to reach Tetsurou’s ears. “I’m going to need so much fucking wine tonight,” Keiji confesses, an uncharacteristic whine to his voice. </p>
<p>“You’re doing great, I think,” Tetsurou laughs, winding one arm around Keiji’s waist and pulling him a half step closer. He can feel the leftover warmth from the oven against Keiji’s skin and when Keiji turns his face into Tetsurou’s shoulder, perhaps the warmth there is the flush of blood settled comfortably on his cheeks. Regardless if another bottle of wine before dinner is ready is truly a good idea, Tetsurou will let Keiji have this. </p>
<p>“He’s not what I expected,” Keiji says, jumping a little when the too-loud intro sound of Mario Kart blares from the television. Koutarou shouts a barely audible sorry before the volume is lowered to a much more appropriate level. </p>
<p>Tetsurou hopes Kenma isn’t too uncomfortable, reminding himself that while these were Tetsurou’s friends, Kenma was not a child. He was not the same fourteen-year-old boy of Tetsurou’s memories, but a thirty-one-year-old man who made his living selling his body in various ways. Tetsurou would have to trust that Kenma will speak up when he’s too uncomfortable with something. And though Koutarou is loud, brash, and often a little too touchy for many people’s liking, Tetsurou has yet to come across a better listener than him. </p>
<p>“He’s…” Keiji falls silent, head tilting further against Tetsurou’s shoulder as a tuneless hum sounds from the back of his throat. “He does not look like someone who would abandon a friend,” Keiji says at last.</p>
<p>The words make something shift in Tetsurou’s gut, a funny feeling he would rather blame on the sudden consumption of half a bottle of wine than to think on Keiji’s words. </p>
<p>“Tetsurou.” Pulling away from Tetsurou’s loose grasp, Keiji moves to stand in front of him, the minor height difference oddly amusing when Keiji is staring up at him. Across Keiji’s cheekbones is the tell-tale sign of his drinking—a faint pink blush that makes his silver eyes almost sparkle. For a moment Tetsurou thinks of the hazy memory of Keiji’s lips against his, soft despite the aggression he remembers them sharing, and he wonders. What would it be like, now, to lean down those few inches between them, to capture Keiji’s bottom lip between his? He knows, Keiji would let him, of course. “Tetsurou,” Keiji says again, lips moving around his name in a familiar way.</p>
<p>Abruptly, Tetsurou is thrown to that morning, in the shower. An unnecessary memory, a memory he’s tried to bury despite holding it shamefully close to his heart. Tetsurou, Kenma had gasped, pain and fear and trust coloring his name as Tetsurou tried to pretend that removing another man’s—</p>
<p>Cool thumbs brush along the curve of Tetsurou’s cheekbones, equally cool fingers curling around the sides of Tetsurou’s face and tangling in the soft baby hairs at the base of his neck. “Tetsurou, come back.” Keiji’s words are soft, the rhythmic brush of his thumbs against Tetsurou’s face pulling him from the depths of his thoughts. Keiji keeps the pace until Tetsurou’s eyes refocus to take in the state of the kitchen, Keiji’s phone timer sounding in a gentle twittering birdsong from its place next to the stove. </p>
<p>He blinks once, twice, and then once more before Tetsurou focuses his attention on Keiji, taking in the furrow between his brows, the gentle slant of his eyes. The red of his cheeks. Oh, how Tetsurou wishes Keiji were six inches shorter, his hair longer, blonder. How Tetsurou daydreams of this exact position, yet not with Keiji.</p>
<p>Tetsurou aches. “I’m okay,” he says, forcing his mouth into a smile. “I haven’t eaten much before that wine. You know how I am.” </p>
<p>Outside of the kitchen, they hear a twinkling laugh, the clear bell sound seemingly piercing through every other noise in the apartment. Tetsurou can hear nothing else and given the way Keiji’s head turns in the direction of the sound, Tetsurou knows he hears it too. </p>
<p>“He’ll be fine. I’ll be fine,” Keiji mumbles to himself as he extracts his fingers from Tetsurou’s hair, pinching his cheek as he pulls away. “Also, stop drinking before you eat.” Tetsurou opens his mouth to retort, curious as to how much Keiji has eaten today given the fact that on top of his and Koutarou’s usual side dishes, there is a ham in the oven. But Keiji fixes him with a stare, unnerving in all the usual ways, and the words die in Tetsurou’s throat. “Now, help me with dinner.” </p>
<p>Working his neck from side to side, Tetsurou lets a true grin split his face, falling into a familiar position by Keiji’s side. “Of course. What do you need?”</p>
<p>Later, after the food has been polished off, Tetsurou will find Koutarou and Kenma in the kitchen, heads bent almost too close together as they stare at the apple pie in the oven. Tetsurou will see how Kenma seems to lean towards his best friend, sometimes flinching when Koutarou gets too loud, but content to bask in the glowing warmth that Koutarou exudes without trying. </p>
<p>Keiji will see the same scene, tipsy laughter spilling from pretty lips as he pushes both of them away from the oven, words spilling from his mouth while he pulls the pie from the oven. Tetsurou will continue to stand at the mouth of the room, toes curling over the small bump where the carpet meets tile, content to watch as Keiji maneuvers around Koutarou and Kenma with gentle ease. If Tetsurou did not know better, he would have never believed their disastrous first dinner ever existed. </p>
<p>This, Tetsurou will think, catching Kenma’s eye, watching as wine-tinged lips pull into a blinding smile, is worth it.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Tetsurou wakes early enough that the sun has not fully risen, the space between his bedroom curtains casting a muted grey glow around the room, the strongest rays of morning light cutting diagonally across Tetsurou’s bed. The night before, Tetsurou had fallen into bed still tipsy from wine and he remembers reaching for Kenma as sleep overtook him, dragging him into dreamless darkness, before gently rousing him to catch the first rays of sunlight streaking across the city. He doesn’t mind mornings like these, especially as the fall days bleed into the overcast grey winter skies, clouds reedy and thin as they float by. It’s mornings like these that allow Tetsurou time to think, more than he usually does, though these days Tetsurou finds that his life has slowed down inasmuch as it has sped up. A paradoxical thing, really, that the year is a month from completion yet Tetsurou’s only just now wrapping his head around what’s transpired when winter was making way for <em>spring</em>. To think that seven months ago Kenma had shown up broken and bleeding on Tetsurou’s doorstep, a silent plea for help.</p>
<p>The days seem to have crawled by since then, each day bleeding into another in a routine that evolved as the two of them learned the other’s habits. Tetsurou can still recall the first time Kenma pressed his hand against Tetsurou’s sternum—just as the spring months bled far enough into summer that he slept shirtless—the sudden warmth startling yet welcome. It seems like yesterday, but as Tetsurou lies in bed, watching dust catch in the pale grey light, it seems like ages ago.</p>
<p>Who could have guessed that less than six months later, Tetsurou would be waking to Kenma curled against his side, the hook of their ankles no longer the only thing keeping them together?</p>
<p>There’s a press of lips against the steady beat of Tetsurou’s heart, almost soft enough to be a sleep-addled accident if it were not for the slow stretch of Kenma’s legs, unhooking their ankles as he does so. “Good morning,” Tetsurou breathes, unwilling to truly disturb the quiet in the air around them.</p>
<p>Kenma only gives a low hum in response, the vibration more noticeable than the actual sound. Tetsurou feels warm hands press against the spaces between Tetsurou’s ribs, fingers trailing heat even though the loose shirt covering Tetsurou’s chest.</p>
<p>Content to let Kenma wake up on his own, Tetsurou lets his eyes fall closed, ears perked to the city waking up proper, since there was never a true silent moment this deep into the city. It was known as the city that never sleeps for a reason, though the richer area that Tetsurou finds himself in often has small pockets of almost silence, where the bougie late-night young adults are just falling asleep and the corporate workers are starting their mornings. He lives for those moments when he is awake for them. A treat, on nights he finds himself conscious enough to appreciate it.</p>
<p>There is a brief moment between the sound of a car horn and the slam of an apartment door where Tetsurou finds a second of silence. In that instant, it feels like the world simply stops, and Tetsurou imagines that if he were to open his eyes, even the dust motes caught in the rays of the sun would be at a standstill.</p>
<p>The moment dissolves, not with the slam of a door, but with the slow slide of Kenma’s hand up his spine, warm hands slipping under the fabric of Tetsurou’s shirt without a sound.</p>
<p>“Kenma,” Tetsurou warns lowly, now even more careful to keep his eyes closed, even as Kenma’s fingertips dip into each notch of his spine. Even as Tetsurou feels his breath shudder unevenly out of him, toes curling against the bedsheet.</p>
<p>“Hn,” Kenma replies, continuing to drag his hand upwards, taking care to periodically skim his nails across the skin. Tetsurou shudders out another breath, his brain forming half a thought to push Kenma away, to get <em>away</em>.</p>
<p>Tetsurou’s eyes flutter open, blinking into paler grey light, a few hues brighter than just minutes ago, shifting his body to allow him to look down at Kenma, a retort to <em>stop </em>pressed against the seam of his lips.</p>
<p>“Mornin,” Kenma says, having shifted along with Tetsurou, hand now curved along Tetsurou’s ribs once more.</p>
<p>Tetsurou doesn’t hear the words, not really. He barely hears the rush of morning traffic, too focused on the sleep lines etched into Kenma’s cheek, the way his lips are pulled down into the smallest of pouts, lips still red from last night's wine and <em>god</em>, Tetsurou can only think of what it would be like to run his fingers through Kenma’s sleep mused hair and—</p>
<p>His thoughts are cut off when he registers Kenma shift his body up, head tilting to press a damp kiss to Tetsurou’s bottom lip.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Tetsurou says, blinking down at Kenma as he stares back, face blank except for the slight raise of a single eyebrow. This is different, Tetsurou thinks, backtracking to the night before. This is different, this isn’t <em>normal</em>. Not that Kenma had many rules these days, but every single stolen moment between the two of them happened in the dead of night, when the only witness to Kenma’s gasps was the hum of the heater, the muted city traffic far below them, most people long asleep.</p>
<p>“You think too much,” Kenma cuts through Tetsurou’s thoughts, pressing a kiss just to the left of the last kiss, barely catching the corner of Tetsurou’s mouth.</p>
<p>“I’m beginning to think that you don’t think <em>enough</em>,” Tetsurou stresses, eyes narrowing at the look of sleepy amusement dancing in Kenma’s golden eyes.</p>
<p>At that, Kenma laughs, breath smelling faintly still of toothpaste, sleep, and wine, a combination that Tetsurou finds disgusting, though he makes no effort to push Kenma away. “I think plenty,” is all Kenma says, hand moving under Tetsurou’s shirt to press firm against his pectoral, pushing Tetsurou back until he is no longer looking at Kenma biting down on his lip, but to the off-white smooth plaster of his ceiling.</p>
<p>Neither of them says anything as Kenma shifts around, hand disappearing from under Tetsurou’s shirt as Kenma repositions himself atop Tetsurou, thighs on either side of Tetsurou’s hips. Resigning himself to whatever game Kenma thinks is appropriate for an hour clearly before nine, Tetsurou lets Kenma do as he pleases, careful to keep his palms flat on the bed.</p>
<p>“You can touch me,” Kenma says from above him, weight moving as he drapes himself across Tetsurou’s front, shoulder-length blond and black hair framing his face delicately. “Why don’t you touch me?”</p>
<p>With his vision full of gold—gold skin, gold hair, gold eyes, <em> gold gold gold </em>—Tetsurou closes his eyes—when did he open them?—slow enough not to alert Kenma, though that proves to be fruitless when his body tenses at every move Kenma dares to make.</p>
<p>There was a time, when the fleeting touches of Kenma’s palm against Tetsurou’s tanned skin and breaths shuddered in the darkest of nights, where Tetsurou knew he was done for. That these games, these moments taken by force in the darkest hours, were not his to play. It was not his role to be the one in control. He knew, so many months ago, that he would let Kenma use him until Tetsurou had nothing left to give. Even then, Tetsurou would hack his body limb from limb in an offering to Kenma to stay with him, to take until Tetsurou was no longer, until his body was nothing more than scraps of unused flesh.</p>
<p>Six months later, these thoughts hold true. Tetsurou can see the hunger in Kenma’s stare, gold eyes fixated on his face, so unwavering that Tetsurou likens himself to a piece of prey caught in the grip of a lion, teeth just centimeters from tearing into the soft skin protecting Tetsurou’s throat. Six months later and Tetsurou does not see an end to these games, where Kenma pushes him until the frayed edges of Tetsurou’s control slip from between his fingers, until he’s gripping tight at Kenma’s hips as Kenma presses too close against his body.</p>
<p>Tetsurou knows when he’s being used, but here—with Kenma—he doesn’t know how to stop it. Or if he wants to stop it.</p>
<p>“Please,” Tetsurou averts his gaze, watching instead the way Kenma’s lips part to let his tongue run across his bottom lip. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for—if he wants Kenma to get off, to stop these games, or…or what?</p>
<p>Tetsurou does not think himself a fool, no. He knows the answers to his questions if he were to sit and think on them long enough to allow himself to come to the conclusion.</p>
<p>Tetsurou <em>does </em>think himself a coward. Unwilling to let his brain make the connection that is so clearly there, for his own sake of mind. For the peace of his heart, at least. So that these moments with Kenma, as short-lived and fragile as they are, can weave into a delusion of Kenma being his.</p>
<p>Of Kenma being—</p>
<p>Tetsurou’s thoughts cut off without fanfare, a simple halt of his upper brain functions, the moment Kenma dips down and kisses him.</p>
<p>It’s delicate, despite the hunger barely controlled in his eyes and the way Tetsurou can feel Kenma grip the sheets on either side of his head. Tetsurou can feel the power in Kenma’s thighs, muscle squeezing at Tetsurou’s hips as Kenma simply kisses him. A kiss so fitting for the morning they find themselves in, on par with the proper morning light staring to filter in the spaces between Tetsurou’s curtains.</p>
<p>Holding tight to the crumbling pieces of sanity, Tetsurou kisses back just as gently, catching Kenma’s lip between his as he lets his eyes slip closed yet again, basking in the steady warmth of the man on top of him. Careful of his actions, Tetsurou lets one hand move from its place on the mattress, fingers curling along the sliver of skin between Kenma’s shorts and shirt.</p>
<p>“Finally,” Kenma mouths, lips brushing against Tetsurou’s as he speaks, thighs flexing. Tetsurou blinks his eyes open, thumb brushing along the exposed skin. “<em> Oh </em>.”</p>
<p>And then the space between their mouths grows, Tetsurou watching with morbid fascination as Kenma’s eyes grow wide, the sheets under Tetsurou’s head pulling as Kenma tightens his grip, thighs locking him in place. Suddenly Kenma drops his face in the juncture between Tetsurou’s shoulder and neck, breath ragged.</p>
<p>Repeating the action has Kenma’s breath fanning hot against Tetsurou’s skin, one had detangling from next to Tetsurou’s head to curl into his hair instead, grip surprisingly gentle. Emboldened, Tetsurou frees his other hand from the self-made prison on the mattress, fingers barely skimming along the edges of Kenma’s sleep shirt before both hands are pushing the fabric up, palms gentle against Kenma’s skin.</p>
<p>This time Kenma whines, face pressing harder against the side of Tetsurou’s throat in an effort to muffle the sound. Pushing Kenma’s shirt up to his armpits, Tetsurou smooths his hands back down Kenma’s ribs, fingers pausing to trace along the ridges of his ribs before settling both hands around the curve of Kenma’s waist. He thumbs the dip of Kenma’s pelvic bone, the closest he’s ever gotten to the band of Kenma’s sleep shorts since they started this months ago.</p>
<p>Surprisingly, Tetsurou feels the aborted motion of Kenma’s hips jerking, a groan spilling loud next to Tetsurou’s ear even as thighs seem to tense on either side of Tetsurou’s body. A flash of heat courses through Tetsurou’s body, an image of Kenma’s head tossed back as he grinds himself on Tetsurou’s stomach, toes curling into Tetsurou’s bedsheets.</p>
<p>“Fuck,” Tetsurou speaks to the room at large, receiving no answer except for the uneven breaths fanning damp against Tetsurou’s throat. “Fuck, Kenma.” <em> You’re so hot</em>, he wants to finish.</p>
<p>Against his neck, Kenma huffs a breathy laugh, lips brushing against the column of Tetsurou’s throat as he does so. “You know,” he starts, words gentle in the morning air. “The last time I let someone do this to me, I got paid.”</p>
<p>Once upon a time, the words would have been a bucket of cold water, a reality check that these moments aren’t real, that they are simply stolen pieces of time carved out of minutes and hours Tetsurou does not logically have, pieced together in a haphazard pattern to create a mirage, hazy enough to be whatever they need it to be. Now, Tetsurou can laugh at these words, pleased that Kenma allows him the privilege to unravel bits of pieces of his body, even if it is at the cost of Tetsurou’s sanity.</p>
<p>“That’s not possible,” Tetsurou replies, one hand wandering to safer territory to press his fingers into the spaces between Kenma’s ribs. “You climbed on top of me three days ago while I was <em>trying </em>to watch The Great British Bake Off. I don’t remember paying you for that.”</p>
<p>“Hm.” With a grace Tetsurou knows he will never possess, Kenma straightens himself up, fingers loosening their grip in Tetsurou’s hair as golden eyes stare him down. “I guess.”</p>
<p>“Or,” Tetsurou hedges, hands sliding away from Kenma’s ribs and hip to curve around the thickest part of his thigh. He can feel the raw strength under his fingertips, the lack of give due to muscles Tetsurou has never had since he’s never worked out in his life—unless one considers the city metro stairs. “Did you mean the last time you let a man fuck you?” Tetsurou is careful to keep his voice even, raising an eyebrow when Kenma continues to stare down at him, palms once again flat on Tetsurou’s chest.</p>
<p>It’s not hard to assume that’s what Kenma meant. Even now, there are times Tetsurou is only left with a note, a warning that Kenma will be gone for a while, his body sold to the highest bidder. Tetsurou’s never asked about what kind of money Kenma makes as a pole dancer if the exotic routines and fleeting touches rake in enough cash. It is the same way for never broaching the topic of Kenma’s apartment—the one he’s never returned to.</p>
<p>Tetsurou brought it up <em>once</em>, only for Kenma to dismiss him with a flick of his wrist, a mention that it was already taken care of. Tetsurou never dared to ask about it again, scared that the press of the topic would send Kenma running away from him once more.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Kenma confesses, shifting against Tetsurou’s stomach. “I did mean that.” The words, despite their clipped tone, carry an undercurrent of heat, desperation woven between the syllables that Tetsurou would have to be deaf to not pick up on.</p>
<p>“I won’t.” Tetsurou punctuates the words with a firm slide of his hands up Kenma’s thighs, feeling muscle jump under his palms as Kenma’s eyelids flutter shut for a moment, jaw working to stay silent. “I won’t fuck you.”</p>
<p>There’s a hum as Kenma wets his lips, chest rising with a slow inhale. “You want to.” It is not a question, and thankfully Kenma does not feel the need to prove his point by rocking back against the erection Tetsurou has pointedly been ignoring since Kenma decided to play this game of his at what was likely eight-thirty in the morning.</p>
<p>“Of course,” Tetsurou says, matter-of-fact. “You’re beautiful, Kenma. But I won’t, you know that.” Tetsurou does not disclose why, knowing that they both have their own reasons for not pressing the matter. Just as he does not truly know Kenma’s intentions for craving Tetsurou’s touch the way he does, Tetsurou keeps his own reasons close to his heart, his last line of defense against Kenma.</p>
<p>If Tetsurou has any lines drawn firm in the sand, this topic would be the one Kenma cannot blur. Tetsurou will let Kenma take anything from him, but <em>this </em>is for Tetsurou and Tetsurou alone. A half-formed thought, a personal topic even he doesn’t have a true answer for. Many nights Tetsurou does not let this thought rise to the surface, always careful to circle around it even during his worst moments of doubt.</p>
<p>“Higher,” Kenma says suddenly, eyes no longer holding the hungry glint from before, but still too intense for Tetsurou to hold for long periods of time. At Tetsurou’s questioning noise, Kenma shifts his hips, eyes never leaving Tetsurou’s face. “Hands up higher.”</p>
<p>A test, probably. Another request for a blurred line in the sand, a question as to where Tetsurou will put a stop to this game. If this would be something Kenma can ask for again, or if there were real limitations to what Tetsurou is willing to do.</p>
<p>And, Tetsurou debates. If sliding his hands up Kenma’s thighs, the flex of muscle giving in to the soft fat of his inner thigh before angling upwards would give Kenma the answer he wants. If brushing his fingers over the line of Kenma’s cock trapped between pajama shorts and boxers would break the fragility of these moments between them. If Tetsurou does this now, would Kenma demand it again later? If he hesitates <em>now</em>, how would Kenma take it? Would he back off for good, or would he simply wait for the comfort of darkness, lips sinful against Tetsurou’s skin as he begged to be touched. Regardless of if Tetsurou could be strong enough to deny Kenma in this moment, would he be strong enough to deny him later?</p>
<p>Did he <em>want </em>to?</p>
<p>Keeping his eyes fixed to the challenging look in Kenma’s own, Tetsurou lets his hands rub down Kenma’s thighs, feeling the whisper of thin hairs against his palms before dragging them back up, pushing up Kenma’s shorts as he does so. “Kenma,” Tetsurou whispers, fingers twitching against Kenma’s skin, fabric bunching above his fingers. “Don’t push this.”</p>
<p>Kenma gives what Tetsurou would dare to call a growl, lips pulling back as his expression morphs into frustration, nails digging into Tetsurou’s chest even through the protection of his shirt. Raising his eyebrows, Tetsurou returns his hands to grip hard at Kenma’s hips, thumbs digging into the soft skin stretched across his pelvis. He presses down until Kenma’s mouth drops open, a half gasp and yelp of pain falling from his lips.</p>
<p>“Stop,” Tetsurou says, layering steel and conviction behind his words that he’s not sure he has. “Whatever you want from me, I won’t do it.” Tetsurou will break later, he always does. They both know it, but in the almost angelic hue of this Friday morning is too perfect to sully with Kenma’s games.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Kenma breathes, closing his eyes, body slouching when Tetsurou relaxes his grip. “Okay.”</p>
<p>Still, Tetsurou is weak, letting Kenma drape across him, lips slotting together, an apology and forgiveness rolled into one. Tetsurou only lets the kiss last for a few long seconds, carefully carding his fingers through Kenma’s hair, their kiss ending with a muted sound.</p>
<p>“Coffee?” Tetsurou asks, staring up at the golden eyes above him, expression equal parts frustrated and amused.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Kenma sighs. And when his knee brushes too close to Tetsurou’s ignored erection, Tetsurou only shoves him off the bed, laughing his way out of the room as Kenma lays grumbling on the ground, barely audible curses following Tetsurou into the kitchen.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter 10 is in edits, but between a 14 hour time difference, my impending (doom) college courses and language courses, and Milk's own life, we cannot promise anything. my personal goal is to have the next chapter out by the end of march, but that is only if our combined schedules and my writing schedule for chapter 11 allows that. As always, i will always keep you updated via #wwydfic on my twitter acc!</p>
<p>Have a good day!</p>
<p><a href="https://twitter.com/mutsukx">twitter</a> // <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1i5dOq5DsBVOUJVj21jKgM?si=g7xuPXsmS7q_XWOy37LQ7w">fic playlist</a> // <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/wwydfic?src=hashtag_click">fic updates</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. the witching hour</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>At one point in time, there were lines Tetsurou drew into the proverbial sand between him and Kenma. Terms that went unspoken but were respected.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Kuroken Day!!</p><p>midterms kicked my ass, i failed one super badly, and life here overseas is kinda nice. dorms r weird tho?</p><p>enjoy today's monster chapter!</p><p>BIG BIG thank you to my lovely one-of-a-kind Milk, who looked over this despite being swamped with their own life shit! ur the BEST and I love u lots. also they r the single reason why //that// part of this chapter was not entirely cut out bc I was just...so done with writing it if I didn't get the ok to keep it as is, u would have gotten NOTHING STEAMY.</p><p>PLEASE LOOK AT THE NEW TAGS! i am begging you! if nothing bothers u about those tags, please continue, if there is something that you are unsure you can handle, feel free to reach out to me on twt and I will be happy to assist you!!</p><p> </p><p>MAJOR CW: Vomiting, Drug Use, Panic Attack, Alcohol Use.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two hours and three cups of coffee into his morning, Tetsurou sits back against the dining room chair and debates the merits of wrapping his laptop charger cord around his neck, effectively ending his life then and there. There are, of course, pros and cons to going out that way, and while his cursor blinks tauntingly on one of many unfinished documents Tetsurou goes through a number of them. The cons are numerous, as he cannot think of dying in any worse way than being strangled. Even drowning is a form of strangulation if he thinks about it. Maybe just oxygen deprivation in general is a <em> bad </em>way to die. Painful as well. </p><p>The image of clawing at his own throat and the panic that strangulation would put on his body simply is just one of several reasons why Tetsurou does not actually touch his charger cord. Tempting, but—no. But the <em>pros </em>would be not looking at his laptop screen or his phone screen. Nor would Tetsurou feel the unwelcome buzz off too much caffeine and too little sleep coursing through his veins at a speed that is almost dizzying. Regardless of whether the culprit is coffee or lack of sleep, Tetsurou does not appreciate having to squint—with his glasses on!—just to get the words on his laptop screen to stop swimming around.</p><p>But death would mean no Kenma, and if Tetsurou is many things, he is selfish. It seems, on the surface, selfless to stay alive for a man who wandered (back) into his life a year and a half ago, but Tetsurou knows that his reasons are much more jaded than that. He wants answers, and death would not bring him those answers. And with sixteen years of not having Kenma in his life, Tetsurou will sit and suffer in his own personal hell as long as it is needed in order to keep the man in his life. So long as Kenma wants to be here, Tetsurou will stick around.</p><p>Three cups of coffee into a two-hour day, Tetsurou sits at the dining room table, laptop and phone spread in front of him, a few loose-leaf pages of lined paper scattered not too far off as Tetsurou drums his fingers tunelessly against dark wood. Around him, the apartment is near silent—as silent as an apartment can get with the city waking up around him. The room is still dark, the barest filters of light creeping along the horizon as Tetsurou sits with his laptop as the only source of light.</p><p>Kenma had come home an hour before, turning on the hallway light to find Tetsurou with his head in his hands, coffee number one lukewarm and halfway gone as Tetsurou sat at the table. Tetsurou, barely able to take in the apartment, gaze focusing between the dark wood surface, his laptop, and his phone, had startled when Kenma had placed a new—hot—cup of coffee in front of him, pressing a chapstick-sticky kiss to the corner of Tetsurou’s mouth when he jerked up to stare at Kenma, truly seeing him for the first time.</p><p>That was an hour—Tetsurou looks at the clock, seeing another thirty minutes have passed—an hour and a <em> half </em>ago now, and besides the other two cups of coffee in his system, Tetsurou barely has anything to show for the passage of time. His laptop dims from the inactivity, spurring Tetsurou’s hand into motion to jerk across the mousepad, waking it up to seer the image of four perfectly tiled word documents fitted into the confines of his screen into Tetsurou’s retinas.</p><p><em> Pick a story</em>, Chikara had said to him two days ago on the phone, voice soothing yet firm even as the chaos of the office in the background waged on,  <em> just pick one, Tetsurou, please. </em></p><p>Tetsurou knows that Chikara understands this time of year, the push of getting books printed and formatted, the holiday sales that Keiji deals with even as the season technically slows down for other parts of the machine—namely Koutarou and the rest of the literary agents on staff. He knows that Chikara is aware that Tetsurou is a Senior Editor, often pitching in an extra hour here and there to help the project managing teams while also having to deal with his own editing manuscripts.</p><p>And now, <em> now </em>of all seasons, Chikara is asking him to pick a story to write. There is no real time crunch for picking, not that Chikara told him at least, but Tetsurou knows the sooner he picks a story the faster he will be able to do the preliminary research for it, and so the faster it will get written. Somehow, it’s already been over a year—almost two—since his last book was finished. If Tetsurou doesn’t start the process of picking a new storyline <em>now</em>, it might be another two or three years before he’s able to add another book to the growing list of titles under his name.</p><p>Ten years ago, Tetsurou thinks to himself, he was barely twenty-three and sitting in a similar position. The table was different, the laptop was different, and the apartment was a lot less nice, but Tetsurou can remember sitting down in that first shitty apartment he rented with Koutarou, in the middle of his master’s program and thinking to himself <em> I want to write a book</em>. It had been harder then, Tetsurou could count the number of Asian-American fiction authors with both his hands and even then, it wasn’t enough in his opinion. A decade ago, Tetsurou only wanted to make a name for himself, firm in his Japanese culture despite growing up in the heart of New York City. He wanted to carve out his own market, to show the world that there <em>was </em>room for people like him, for stories like his. Where the characters could be ethnic and that their stories did not necessarily have to revolve around their ethnicity yet still offer cultural influence the way it <em>should </em>be done. Stories where internal conflict with a person of color did not focus on what it was like to not be <em>white</em>.</p><p>A decade ago, Tetsurou sat on a shitty couch in a shitty apartment with the best roommate in the world, the stress of his early twenties crushing his shoulders, the stress of being a first-generation Japanese-American weighing so heavy on his mind that it was a miracle Tetsurou could have another thought around it. Even now, Tetsurou struggles with how he views himself within his own cultures. His parents did not raise him the way they were raised. Parents who put emphasis on learning Japanese, but did not teach him of some of the lesser practiced cultural traditions. Tetsurou does not blame them, how could he, but he does often feel removed from the culture he was raised in—too Asian to be fully American but too Westernized to ever go back to his home country.</p><p>Tetsurou’s eyes refocus back to his laptop just as the screen dims its brightness, though this time he lets his laptop lie, eyes scanning the dimmed screen as Tetsurou takes in the large font at the top of each opened word document. All of the story pitches sound <em>good</em>, both because they had been written by himself, but also because both Keiji <em>and </em> Chikara offered their support of each pitch. Tetsurou knows that it comes down to him.</p><p>He’s not a fool enough to think that if he doesn’t pick one it will never get written, but Tetsurou is also wise enough to know that out of these four stories, he will be lucky if two of them get the attention they deserve. A shame, truly. Maybe if he was younger, more willing to wear himself thin between writing and shitty part-time jobs, Tetsurou would attempt to tackle two of these pitches at a time. But he’s not twenty-five and coming off the high of his first book and newly achieved graduate degree. He’s not able to pour out thousands upon thousands of words a day the way he could on a day off from work. Tetsurou is thirty-three and honest to <em>god</em>, if he doesn’t pick the storyline for his next novel in the next hour, he’s going to do something drastic. Tetsurou isn’t sure <em>what</em>, but he’ll get to that later. Or never. Hopefully never.</p><p>Swiping his finger across the mousepad once more, Tetsurou figures that whichever document his cursor lands in is to be the next story worthy of his attention for the next year—at least. Yet, when he dares to look at his newly awakened monitor, Tetsurou wonders if this is what the absence of luck is like. For his cursor sits, beautifully, perfectly, right in the middle of all four tiled documents, the usual pointer morphed into a horizontal line, almost mocking Tetsurou in his indecision.</p><p>It’s the unwarranted thought of throwing his entire laptop out the window that cues Tetsurou into the fact that whatever hopes he had for literally anything was simply things he is not going to be able to accomplish today. And no matter how much he wishes to force the decision, Tetsurou refuses to do so.</p><p>Not when he’s a handful of hours into his day with double the amount of caffeine running through his veins. Not when Kenma is curled up in Tetsurou’s bed, hair probably strewn messily about the pillow, looking like Tetsurou’s most grievous of sins.</p><p>And <em>especially </em>not when Tetsurou is slated to meet up with Koushi later in the day, a promise to catch up on their lost years, a threat threaded into Koushi’s promise to squeeze Tetsurou of all his—to quote Koushi’s text—“juicy drama”.</p><p><em> And</em>, for maybe the first time since Tetsurou stumbled upon Kenma at a club he and his coworkers frequented a few times a month, Tetsurou thinks that maybe he’s a little bit excited to share Kenma with someone else.</p><p>Because telling Keiji and Koutarou about Kenma came with unspoken weight. That the two of them knew Kenma in name, in the way Tetsurou would wake up sobbing over a lost love—a lost life—that his college friends had to rebuild.</p><p>It wasn’t Kenma who guided Tetsurou from the dangerous precipice he found himself teetering on in his final years of undergrad—it was Keiji. It was Koutarou.</p><p>Maybe it still <em>is </em> Keiji and Koutarou, though Tetsurou likes to think of himself better than his college self.</p><p>But Koushi didn’t <em>have </em>any of that backstory. Some Tetsurou knows that name dropping Kenma to one of his longest-standing friends is bound to bring up some vague memories of times Tetsurou spoke of him. Yet it was never Koushi who found him neck-deep in a misery Tetsurou didn’t see an out of.</p><p>Better yet, Tetsurou thinks as he rises to rinse out his coffee mug, laptop long forgotten, Koushi likely knew of the demons Tetsurou had on his shoulders, too massive to be shoved under his bed—too dangerous to be locked up in the corners of Tetsurou’s mind. Not that Tetsurou would have been able to see Koushi’s unspoken goodwill.</p><p>Koushi would not judge him, Tetsurou knows. Not like Keiji. A gentle ribbing, an unsated curiosity to know the whole story, but Koushi was always the one Tetsurou ran to before adult life tore them apart. It was always Koushi who let Tetsurou rant to the high heavens, who offered him nothing more than an ear for listening and gentle hands squeezing Tetsurou’s in comfort.</p><p>If Keiji and Koutarou are Tetsurou’s home, then perhaps Koushi is Tetsurou’s solace. One that he no longer needs as much as he did, but a welcome reprieve from the stress of Tetsurou’s day-to-day life.</p><p>There have been many times in the past years since Koushi first graduated with his Master’s head held high as he looked towards the future into getting a doctorate degree when his parents fell ill sending the family of three back to Japan for an unknown period of time, that Koushi flew across the world to visit the little cafe his parents built up near Tetsurou’s alma mater. Their meetings, too, have waxed and waned over the years, going from coworkers to partners in crime to something Tetsurou would call family, to barely keeping contact through Line and other social media platforms. </p><p>Two years is not a long time, not really. Two years, twenty-four months, one-hundred-and-four weeks between the last time Koushi stepped foot into New York City and the last time. Last time, Tetsurou hadn’t quite released his new book, just weeks away. He remembers then, wishing Koushi could stay a little longer, to see all that Tetsurou had done in his friend’s absence. </p><p>A screech of metal wheels and the fine-tuned senses only a native would have alert Tetsurou of the oncoming subway, and with a muffled curse, he and several other commuters rush down the dirty concrete steps, aggressively scanning their metrocards in hopes that for <em>once </em>it doesn't take a longer than a 2-second delay, and all but running down the subway stairs to slide onto the platform. Luckily, for Tetsurou and everyone else taking this subway train, the doors are just starting to open as he scrambles down the last of the steps, dodging the outpour of office workers exiting the subway cars to tumble between the open doors and into a relatively empty car. </p><p>Chest heaving a little harder than Tetsurou wants to admit to, he finds himself a seat between a middle-aged Hispanic woman on her phone, and what looks to be a common tourist. Why there is any tourism just before the holiday seasons, and weeks before the ball drop, Tetsurou doesn't know, but maybe hotels were cheaper this way. </p><p>Either way, winter in New York is a hellscape Tetsurou doesn't think many tourists are aware of. Nothing like salted sideways and pockets of black ice to keep everyone on their toes, or risk eating shit the second they stop paying attention. </p><p>Although Tetsurou had complained earlier to Koushi about having to deal with rush-hour traffic with this early evening meet-up at the cafe, thankfully there is little traffic in the pocket of time Tetsurou’s subway train speeds down the tracks. A few natives trickle on here and there, bundled up to keep the bitter cold off of their skin, but overall Tetsurou doesn't see much of the usual Friday night locals getting ready for a night out near the college campuses or heading downtown. </p><p>Perhaps the stress of holiday shopping has kept some people home. Or even the sudden snap of cold that had hit the area a few days ago. Either way, Tetsurou is grateful to not have to breathe the same reused carbon dioxide the entire ride to A Loutte. Gotta celebrate the small victories these days. </p><p>Ascending the steps out of the metro station has Tetsurou met with an almost too-colorful display of lights. Everywhere <em>everything </em>seems to have been decked out overnight, wrapped in Christmas lights. Red, white, and green seem to glow from every direction Tetsurou looks. Coupled with the puffs of breaths catching in the quickly darkening evening sky, Tetsurou has to stand still for a moment, shuffling off to the side of the metro entrance so he can take in the overwhelming beauty of a city he calls home. </p><p>Even the skyscrapers seem to glitter with the reflections of all the lights, and Tetsurou wishes he could stay and admire the city longer, but frankly, he forgot his gloves and if he’s unable to wrap his hands around a warm beverage <em>soon</em>, there’s a chance he will risk getting frostbite. </p><p>Probably. </p><p>The way to A Loutte has been ingrained into Tetsurou’s legs for more than a decade, and even now, with blinding lights and the occasional blasting of Christmas songs from storefronts, Tetsurou navigates his way around the nightlife of New York, hands pressing against a familiar glass door and pushing it open to be welcomed with a wall of warm air. </p><p>“Tetsurou!” Tetsurou hears Koushi call somewhere to his right, as Tetsurou shuffles his feet a bit against the well-worn mat the staffers brought out around even holiday season. To avoid the salt and snow from tracking into the shop, Koushi had explained to his parents fifteen years ago. That particular mat has long since been replaced, but Tetsurou learned that replacing a mat every year was much cheaper than having to yank out the wood flooring every few years due to warping and erosion. </p><p>Shuffling between patrons and ignoring the low rumble of hunger in his stomach at the sight of various pastries and cakes on their tables, Tetsurou makes his way to the spot Koushi has claimed for them, a smaller table off to the side of the store, though not tucked into the corner like Tetsurou often found himself. </p><p>“Busy tonight,” Tetsurou comments upon arriving at the table, dragging his chair out a bit so he could slip into his seat. There’s already a warm milk tea awaiting him, the dark red ceramic mug still hot to the touch. Tobio must have swung by mere minutes before Tetsurou walked through the door. “Good evening, Koushi.”</p><p>“So,” Koushi drawls the moment Tetsurou’s ass hits the seat across from him, a leer stretched across petal pink lips. Tetsurou can do little more than stare at his friend, wary of the <em>everything </em>that encompasses Koushi as a person. “How has my little stray been, these days?”</p><p>“Stressed,” Tetsurou confesses with a wry pull of his lips. He taps his fingertips against the table as he lets his gaze slide away from Koushi to watch as Tobio passes by. “He’s almost done, you know?”</p><p>“My son,” Koushi sighs, a breathy lilt to his voice. Tetsurou doesn’t even have to look at him to know that Koushi has one hand pressed against his heart, his eyes twinkling with that over-fond expression he always seemed to have around Tobio. “They grow up so fast, don’t they Tetsurou?”</p><p>Tetsurou barks a laugh in reply, turning to face Koushi again. “Doesn’t it make you feel ancient? Watching them grow up?” he makes a vague gesture around them. “Even Hitoka graduates soon, she asked me not too long ago if I could make it to her senior fashion show.”</p><p>“Seems like yesterday,” Koushi breathes out, silver eyes holding the warmth of a fire behind their depths. “That the kids were barely freshmen, begging the two of us to help them with latte art of all things.” The two of them dissolve into muted giggles, careful not to alert Tobio to their whispered stories of latte art mishaps in case the irate barista chooses to come give them a piece of his mind.</p><p>“But!” Koushi straightens, his wide smile ever-present even as he claps his hands in front of him. “You, dearest Tetsurou, have something important to tell me. You’ve picked up your own stray, so I have gathered.”</p><p>A moment passes between them, filled only with the early evening ambiance of A Loutte—the soft chatter of other customers overlaid with a gentle piano cover of <em> Little Drummer Boy</em>. A moment that seems frozen in time, the curious yet devious smile pushing Koushi’s cheeks up until his eyes seem to vanish until crescent moons while Tetsurou’s brain tries to figure a way to give Koushi the information he <em>wants </em>while—</p><p>“It’s Kenma,” Tetsurou’s mouth moves before his brain can think of a better way to name drop his once-lost best friend. “I found Kenma.”</p><p>To Koushi’s credit, the smile doesn’t entirely slip off his face. But Tetsurou was not born yesterday, and Koushi—despite never outwardly stating such—knows more information about Kenma than Tetsurou would be led to assume. Tetsurou is only made aware of Koushi’s shock by the minute way his shoulders tense, the barely noticeable twitch in his smile. “Oh?” Koushi questions, hands lowering to rest delicately against the table. “Have you now?”</p><p>“Yes, it was…” How does one explain the sheer absurdity of how Tetsurou found Kenma? “It was last year. Last summer.”</p><p>It’s not odd, now, for Koushi’s grin to fall from his lips and he purses them into a thin line for a moment, silver eyes searching Tetsurou’s. The action reminds him of how Kenma would stare at him, at the beginnings of their rekindled friendship. How Tetsurou could only stare back and hope whatever Kenma was looking for was written clearly across his face. Even now, with warm silver eyes staring him down, Tetsurou does not know the answer.</p><p>He doesn’t know a lot of things, but Koushi especially has always had motives unbeknownst to Tetsurou.</p><p>“I’m happy for you,” Koushi says, at last, fingers curling elegantly around the handle of his coffee mug. It’s larger than Tetsurou’s mug, the shape reminding him of a snowman. It fits Koushi, as a person. “I know you missed him dearly.”</p><p>And…that’s it? Isn’t it? It’s not Keiji’s scathing response that Kenma is bad for him, that he left once, and he would leave again. That Tetsurou might not be strong enough this time as well. It’s not Koutarou placing a strong hand on his shoulder, hazel-gold eyes warm and comforting but holding a <em> pity </em>that Tetsurou didn’t want to see, didn’t need to see.</p><p>It’s just. <em> I’m happy for you</em>.</p><p>It’s just. <em> You’ve missed him. </em></p><p>“Yeah,” Tetsurou replies in the silence that goes a beat too long. His voice sounds choked, even to his own ears, and Tetsurou does not wish to know the expression plastered across his face for all to see. “I missed him so much.”</p><p>Instead of pity like Tetsurou expects, Koushi’s expression melts into one bordering on the same indulgent expression he gives to Tobio—the one he gave so often during Tobio’s first years working with them at the café. It reminds Tetsurou of love, but not one that he’s intimately familiar with—as depressing as that sounds.</p><p>“It’s a good thing you found him then, isn’t it?” Koushi smiles around the lip of the mug, teeth making a small clink when they meet ceramic. “How has he been? How have <em>you </em>been? I’m sure you have lots to tell me.” Koushi puts his mug down, his hand coming up to cup his chin as his elbow rests on the table. “We have all the time you need.”  </p><p>And Tetsurou knows this meeting was meant for Tetsurou to ask Koushi about his new—at least to Tetsurou—boyfriend. About <em> Daichi</em>. He knows that there are questions Koushi has answers to, like how his parents are, how Kiyoko is doing these days and even an answer as to how well A Loutte is fairing in Koushi’s absence.</p><p>And of course, the burning question of whether or not Koushi will ever follow through on his dreams of becoming a physical therapist, or if his parent’s livelihood—if A Loutte—will become Koushi’s life when they pass.</p><p>But Koushi is <em>warm</em>. Koushi is safe and one of the least truly judgmental people left in Tetsurou’s life. Someone he can confide in without fear of ridicule, of pity; of disappointment. So it’s easy to fill Koushi in on the past year. Of the ups and downs with Kenma, of the emotions Tetsurou knows the answers to but refuses to ask himself the questions.</p><p>Tetsurou tells Koushi these things between careful sips of his peppermint latte—as more caffeine is the last thing he needs—until his mug is long empty and Tobio soundlessly swings by with refills, this time both mugs covered in cartoon reindeer. Koushi laughs at the humorous parts, his breathy squeaks so endearing that Tetsurou makes it a point to tell Koushi of some of the funnier moments between Kenma and himself, even if it offers little to the story overall.</p><p>“Ah,” Tetsurou coughs as he finally makes his way to where the story is no longer the past, but a simple retelling of the evening prior. “And that’s about it, I guess.”</p><p>To this, Koushi laughs once more, lips pulling back to reveal his gums as he tilts his head, the sound quickly swallowed by the café chatter. “Oh, Tetsurou,” Koushi says in Japanese, his voice falling into a familiar cadence. “It’s so obvious how much you adore this man.”</p><p>The words are not harsh, nor do they have the double meaning that Keiji would weave into the same phrase. If Koushi were to speak the words in English, perhaps Tetsurou would find them condescending. Perhaps there is something about the achingly familiar lilt of a language Tetsurou rarely gets to use that reminds him that these are words not meant to hurt, but words to hold close.</p><p>A statement. A fact. Tetsurou <em>does </em>adore Kenma, and there is nothing wrong with that.</p><p>There is nothing wrong with working hard to keep Kenma right where he is—with Tetsurou.</p><p>“But,” Koushi continues on, propping his head up with the palm of his hand, the silver of his eyes gentle while still managing to be serious. “Please, do not let him be your ruin. You deserve better than that.”</p><p>Throat tight with emotions Tetsurou does not want to dwell on in a café full of college students and frenzied businessmen, he says nothing, opting for a short nod of his head before busying himself with a mouthful of lukewarm peppermint latte.</p><p>When Tetsurou looks back up, confident that the words next out his mouth will not stumble and scatter across the dark wood of their table—mangled and confused as they lie in their jumbled heap—he finds Koushi looking right back at him, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his lips.</p><p>It is times like these—where they allow themselves to sit in a comfortable silence—that Tetsurou is reminded why he chose A Loutte as one of his long-term university jobs. For, it was not the fact that the café sat right in the middle of campus and Tetsurou apartment, nor was it the middle-aged Japanese couple who reminded Tetsurou of the parents he left behind.</p><p>No. It was the boy standing behind the counter on Tetsurou’s first shift, with skin as white as snow, and eyes that reminded Tetsurou of the way the sun hit rain clouds at sunset. It was Koushi, with thin lips stretched thinner in a gummy smile, with lightly accented English and rapid-fire Japanese that kept Tetsurou on his toes.</p><p>It was Koushi.</p><p>“Now,” Koushi says suddenly, yanking Tetsurou away from the spiral of his own thoughts. And judging by the grin on Koushi’s face, he knows exactly where Tetsurou had been going. “Are we going to sit here in silence, or are you going to ask me about Daichi?”</p><p>And Tetsurou mirrors Koushi’s grin with one of his own, letting the evening wash over him in waves of unapologetic laughter, hot milk teas, and a constant crooning of various Christmas songs. Outside, Tetsurou can see the foot traffic rise, the holiday lights glittering through the windows to cast almost magical shadows across the beige walls of the cafe, artwork seeming to glitter in their frames. The evening gets better when A Loutte closes for the night, releasing Tobio from her clutches so Koushi and Tetsurou can bundle him between the two of them, breaths fanning out ahead of the trio as they stride down salted sidewalks and holiday-decorated trees. It is here that Koushi begs them to accompany him to this hot pot place he found a few blocks from the café, a taste-test for a possible dinner with Daichi.</p><p>Of course, Tetsurou agrees, ribbing Tobio until he begrudgingly accepts—so long as Koushi pays.  </p><p>It is here that Koushi squeezes information out of Tobio that even Tetsurou didn’t know, with gentle eyes, warm hands, and free bottles of Tsingtao.</p><p>“You’re <em> what </em>?” Tetsurou mumbles around a bite of mushroom, teeth tearing into the soft, cooked flesh of the vegetable. In front of him, the hotpot sits in the center of their table, empty plates that once housed vegetables and meat pushed off to the side. “Dating? You have a boyfriend?” </p><p>“Yes.” Tobio looks across the table, eyes half-lidded in the way they always do when particularly annoyed with Tetsurou’s <em>dramatics</em>. “I just said that, pay attention.”</p><p>Koushi giggles next to Tetsurou, somehow in time to the soft croon of traditional Chinese music playing overhead, his cheeks flushed with some sake notable from his hometown. “Play nice,” Koushi chides, fingers wrapping around Tobio’s bicep. “Tell us about who you’re dating, Tobio.”</p><p>It’s with the same gentle push, the way Koushi’s eyes are warm and inviting—even more so with the alcohol bringing extra heat to his face—that Tobio spills about his most recent dating endeavors.</p><p>“He’s just so annoying sometimes.” Tobio grouses towards the end, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Always excited about everything, even if we’ve done it before. Even if <em> he’s </em> done it before.”</p><p>“Refreshing,” Koushi says, nail tapping against the glass of the empty sake bottle. “He sounds wonderful, Tobio!”</p><p>“Very opposite of you,” Tetsurou adds. “It sounds like a good match-up.” He smiles at Tobio, noting the bashful tilt of Tobio’s lips as he and Koushi shower their youngest friend in affirming praise.</p><p>“I’m excited to meet him!” Koushi cuts in, grin infectious and eyes twinkling. He continues to beam at Tobio, uncaring of the way Tobio tenses across the table, eyes slowly growing wide.</p><p>“Whenever that is,” Tetsurou hastily continues, nudging his foot against Koushi’s under the table. “We will be excited to meet him whenever you think it is time for him to meet us.”</p><p>“Oh.” Eloquent as always, Tobio says nothing more than a mumble of thanks, turning his head away from Koushi to take a long sip of his beer. “I’ll keep that in mind.”</p><p>“No pressure,” Tetsurou presses, holding Tobio’s stare for a moment longer than necessary before nudging Koushi with his shoulder. “So? What do you think about this place? Good date night for Daichi next week?”</p><p>And, just like that, Tobio’s dating loses priority. Just like that, Tetsurou listens as Koushi lists the pros and cons of the restaurant—a slightly upscale establishment, though authentic enough in both Tobio and Tetsurou’s opinion. Ten minutes and talking Koushi out of <em>another </em>mildly expensive bottle of sake later, they have all agreed that the restaurant is good enough for a planned date, though Koushi laments that he wishes there were more sit-down authentic Asian restaurants outside the borders of Chinatown.</p><p>“It’s the price we pay,” Tetsurou comments long after they’ve left the restaurant, his naked fingers interlocked with Koushi’s gloved ones. It’s just the two of them now, Tobio having left them as they departed the hot pot place, an apology for cutting the night short as he excused himself. “Working and living in Manhattan the way we do. Means we have to travel just for a taste of home.”</p><p>“And even then, it’s not always good enough,” Koushi complains, cheek pressing against Tetsurou’s shoulder as they walk. “Sometimes, it tastes too much like New York. Too authentic, too…too <em> exotic</em>, to truly be a home-cooked meal.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t know. I only have food here to tie me to Japan.” Tetsurou squeezes Koushi’s hand, swinging their arms slowly. “And you, of course. Did you bring me gifts?”</p><p>Koushi laughs, a low sound in the night air. “Of course I did. I’ll bring them over closer to Christmas. After Daichi gets here, maybe. Otherwise, he leaves after the New Year, so maybe then.”</p><p>To that, Tetsurou only hums, letting the festive night around them twinkle as they pass brightly lit tree after brightly lit tree. For now, Tetsurou puts his worries aside, basking in the presence of Koushi, of the holiday season. Of another year older.</p><p>For now, Tetsurou just lets himself enjoy the moment, uncaring of what lies in wait back at his apartment.</p><p>It can wait.</p>
<hr/><p>There are things in this world that Tetsurou knows he will never understand, or even have the opportunity to experience. These are things that he of course does not <em>know</em>, for how would he know about things he will never experience if he does not get to experience them? Sure, he can say he will likely never experience the adrenaline of bungee jumping, but Tetsurou <em>understands </em>bungee jumping—at least in theory.</p><p>Yet, he does not understand what he is not aware of, simply because his thirty-four years of life have not given him a chance to experience it. It’s a sobering feeling, the knowledge that there are things he will never truly understand, but Tetsurou cannot miss a thing he’s never <em>had</em>.</p><p>“You aren’t watching this, are you?” Tetsurou asks Kenma, turning to find Kenma curled up in two blankets, eyes drooping shut in slow, long blinks. Even from where Tetsurou sits on the other side of the couch, granted only a handful of feet away, he can tell that Kenma’s eyes are unseeing even when he manages to keep them open.</p><p>It’s not that Tetsurou minds Kenma’s lack of attention, though he wonders what has him so exhausted—or at least lethargic—as Tetsurou is also barely following the storyline of whatever inane plot Lifetime has come up with for one of their yearly Christmas movies. Something about a middle-aged white man returning to his small village hometown to meet the younger sister of his ex-girlfriend—now married—and proceeding to fall in love. Or something.</p><p>Just another cookie cutter film with the added bonus of a fairly significant age gap. Not the best holiday movie Tetsurou has seen in recent years but not the <em>worst</em>. Nothing, and he means nothing, will ever top the horrid film Koutarou forced him and Keiji to watch in their first years of graduate school about a murderous snowman.</p><p>At least this film uses real people and wasn’t made in the late 90s, if nothing else.</p><p>“No,” Kenma replies, long after the silence has stretched past comfortable. “Not really.” Tetsurou hears the whisper of shuffling blankets, turning to watch as Kenma languidly unwraps himself from his blankets, fingers trailing almost reverently down the soft fabrics.</p><p>Tetsurou isn’t sure if time passes too slow, brain caught on the way Kenma carefully pulls each blanket fold away from his body, or if Kenma is methodical enough to track his own movements as his hands repeat the movement of blanket to couch. Finally, either seconds or minutes later, when the last piece of woolen fabric has been left draped across the arm of Tetsurou’s couch, does Kenma look at him.</p><p>There are many things Tetsurou is unaware of, things he does not know and therefore cannot understand. But there is something in the way Kenma gazes at him, so plainly open, yet glassy and unfocused. Tetsurou doesn’t know what Kenma sees, or even the reasons why Kenma’s eyes fall shut for a long moment afterward. He just knows it’s not <em>right</em>. Not normal, but when have Kenma’s actions ever been truly in the realm of <em>normal</em>.</p><p>Unable to look away from the serene curl of Kenma’s lips to the unhurried opening of clouded gold eyes, Tetsurou feels his breath freeze in his chest, lungs ice-cold as Kenma begins to move across the couch, crawling the short distance between them until there is little more than atoms separating their bodies.</p><p>“Kenma?” Tetsurou dares to ask, reeling back a fraction to give the two of them <em>space</em>. “Are you okay?”</p><p>And Kenma, elegant and sensual and everything Tetsurou dreams to have, smiles at him as he lifts his hand to trail warm fingers along the line of Tetsurou’s jaw.</p><p>“Wonderful,” Kenma responds, syllables dripping like honey from his lips, a high flush to his cheeks as Kenma leans closer. “I feel <em> wonderful </em>.”</p><p>There are things Tetsurou will never know in this life, but he knows <em>this</em>. The warm press of Kenma’s lips against his own, dry until Kenma parts his lips to allow Tetsurou to map the familiar territory of his mouth. Tetsurou knows the weight of Kenma’s hips flush with his thighs bracketing Tetsurou on either side as Kenma straddles him, their kiss breaking only for the shortest of seconds before Tetsurou chases after him.</p><p>It’s the gentle cradle of Tetsurou’s face between equally soft yet calloused hands, the way Kenma lets his oversized hoodie sleeves slip from where they hide the faint pink scars atop his wrists. Tetsurou distantly wonders how Kenma hides these scars at work, a faint image of an unattainable future where Kenma allows Tetsurou to wipe the makeup from his wrists, revealing a tragedy forever engraved into Kenma’s skin.</p><p>Behind Kenma, the movie plays on, stilted dialogue and distressingly decent renditions of Christmas songs the backdrop to the achingly tender way Kenma slides their mouths together. Even the sounds between them are subdued, unwilling to break the slow roll of heat enveloping Tetsurou’s skin at each point of contact with Kenma.</p><p>Tetsurou does not know everything, and it is unlikely he ever will, but he knows the gasps that spill from Kenma’s lips when they finally part, letting his hands slowly slide under Kenma’s hoodie, palms flat against warm skin. Tetsurou can pick apart Kenma’s tells, the twitch of Kenma’s fingers against Tetsurou’s cheeks, the tensing of his thighs as Tetsurou pushes Kenma’s hoodie up, exposing hot skin to the cool air around them. Tetsurou revels in the way Kenma presses closer, one hand dropping from its place cradling Tetsurou’s jaw to wrap around his neck, lips parting in a breathless sigh. Tetsurou understands the lazy roll of Kenma’s hips, the furrow pinched between his brows as he chases friction between four layers of fabric. In another life, in an ideal life, Tetsurou is likely to take pity on the way Kenma whines, jaw slack and fingers searching for something to ground himself with. In this ideal world, Tetsurou would slide his hand down the front of Kenma’s sweats, dipping fingers along the hem of his boxers to graze along Kenma’s cock, tip wet with pre-cum.</p><p>This is, for better or worse, not the ideal life Tetsurou wishes to live, and instead of playing out a fantasy he knows is better off as one, he instead lets his hands drag their way to grip at Kenma’s hips, slowing the roll of his hips from borderline frantic to something more measured, steadier, surer in intent. Watches as Kenma’s brows smoothen out, tongue licking at his lips. An ideal world is not where they reside, perfection is never something Tetsurou has sought after, but even still he cannot help himself in the gentle way he rolls his hips up to meet the guided glide of Kenma’s lips.</p><p>Here, with a cheesy holiday film witness to their actions, Tetsurou gains a knowledge he did not know he lacked. He does not know everything, he does not even know what he doesn’t know, but <em>this </em>—the broken whine an octave higher than Tetsurou has ever heard ripped out of Kenma, will surely be his new religion. In the way Kenma’s fingers finally tangle harsh into Tetsurou’s hair, yanking hard on dark strands, eyes rolling back before closing entirely.</p><p>“Oh—<em> oh</em>,” Kenma manages to articulate, body shuddering so pretty in Tetsurou’s grip. Though his eyes don’t open, Tetsurou watches as Kenma’s pretty mouth spills high gasps and choked praises. “Please,  <em> please </em>—”</p><p>At one point in time, there were lines Tetsurou drew into the proverbial sand between him and Kenma. Terms that went unspoken but were respected. Tetsurou remembers the first one being broken the night Kenma crawled atop him, the first time thick thighs framed Tetsurou’s hips, elbows and forearms on either side of Tetsurou’s head as Kenma let his hair fall in a curtain around them, gold eyes shining with moonlight, lips barely parted in a whispered plea.</p><p>A question that would have been respected had Tetsurou denied him. But Tetsurou has only been good at rules when Kenma doesn’t press their limits, when they stayed entirely away from the subject matter. It was like this that Tetsurou watched in horror through the months, each line blurring into dust—as if it were never there. Rules that were set to protect Tetsurou. His heart, his state of mind. His sanity.</p><p>The answers to the questions Tetsurou does not ask himself lurks at the corners of his mind, forever in the peripheral. In moments like these, they slink to the front, a prayer pressing against the soft palate of Tetsurou’s throat. He will not ask them, and without the question, the answers are meaningless.</p><p>Caught in his thoughts, Tetsurou does not realize Kenma is speaking until Kenma yanks hard on his hair, the force tilting Tetsurou’s head back until he could feel the brush of the couch cushions. He blinks to refocus, finding that he has relaxed his grip on Kenma’s hips, the fabric of his hoodie folding over Tetsurou’s fingers.</p><p>“Please,” Kenma repeats, tilting forward to drag his lips along the column of Tetsurou’s throat, teeth grazing teasingly against the thin skin stretched tight along Tetsurou’s pulse. Kenma punctuates his plea with a hard roll of his hips and even through layers of clothes, Tetsurou can feel the outline of Kenma’s cock drag along his abdomen.</p><p>Unbidden, heat rolls through him, hips kicking up instinctively in an effort to draw another whine from Kenma’s throat. This time, when Tetsurou pushes the hoodie up Kenma’s chest, Kenma releases the grip on Tetsurou’s hair to let Tetsurou yank the hoodie off him, body shuddering as Kenma sits shirtless, a hair’s breadth away from Tetsurou’s touch.</p><p>For a moment, they just sit there, uncaring of the ending credits playing behind Kenma. Tetsurou lets his eyes roam free along the slopes of Kenma’s body, following the path from his throat to the jut of his collarbones and down the curve of his shoulders. He takes care to avert his attention from the sinful way Kenma’s waist dips before curling outward to frame the thick muscle of his thighs—hidden by sweats, to Tetsurou’s silent disappointment—but it’s impossible to <em>not </em>notice when Kenma starts to grind slow, the drag of friction no longer centered across Tetsurou’s stomach but slotted into the dip of his hip, pressure <em>so close </em>to where he wants—no, needs—it to be. It’s impossible not to pay attention to the way Kenma’s thighs tense and relax as he rocks steadily along the groove of Tetsurou’s pelvis, the muscles almost begging to be gripped tight and— <em> fuck</em>.</p><p>“Fuck,” Tetsurou echoes, thoughts stuttering even in his own head as Kenma roughly yanks up Tetsurou’s threadbare shirt, sweaty hands pressing hard against the give of Tetsurou’s stomach. In the back of his mind, Tetsurou realizes that of all the abnormal things Kenma has done, <em> this </em>might be the oddest of them all.</p><p>And—<em> and</em>, Tetsurou isn’t stupid, just a coward. Just a coward too afraid to halt the fluid roll of Kenma’s hips to ask what is <em>wrong</em>. That this heat, the fuzziness of Tetsurou’s mind, and the symphony of Kenma’s punched-out moans is reason enough to let whatever <em>this </em>is happen. Even if Tetsurou regrets it afterward, at least he can say just once, he let himself have the single thing he’s denied himself for the better part of a year.</p><p>There are many things Tetsurou will never get to experience, things he will never know he misses. But at least—</p><p>“<em> God, </em>” Kenma’s low groan cuts through the mess of Tetsurou’s thoughts, warm hands sliding up Tetsurou’s chest until they meet the crumpled fabric of his shirt. “You think too much.” Leaning forward, Kenma brushes his lips along the slant of Tetsurou’s jaw, breath ragged as he continues to rock his hips against Tetsurou’s.</p><p>“You don’t think enough,” Tetsurou pants, hands finding purchase in the dip of Kenma’s waist, smooth skin dimpling under the pressure of Tetsurou’s fingers. “You don’t fucking <em> think </em>.”</p><p>Kenma only offers a hum in reply, drawing back to stare at Tetsurou for a moment too long, golden eyes stripping Tetsurou bare even with the cloudy film over them. He dips forward again, pace stuttering briefly as Kenma presses his lips against Tetsurou’s tongue, licking into Tetsurou’s mouth with the quietest of moans.</p><p>Tetsurou isn’t sure at what point Kenma stops the slow movement of his lips. Either between the slow kisses Tetsurou presses against Kenma’s mouth or when Tetsurou lets his hand trail hot up the curve of Kenma’s spine, the other slipping past both Kenma’s sweats and boxers to press his fingers into the supple flesh stretched across Kenma’s ass. The action makes Kenma’s hips jolt forward, his whine muffled by Tetsurou’s tongue.</p><p>Digging his fingers harder into the give of Kenma’s skin, Tetsurou lets Kenma break away from the kiss, a sigh parting his lips as they catch their breaths, erections trapped between their stomachs.</p><p>Tetsurou has half a mind to just wrap his hand around both of them, the slow jerk likely enough to send him over the edge with how wound up and tense he feels. How long has passed since Kenma first climbed into his lap, lips pulled back into a dangerous smirk that should have immediately clued Tetsurou in? Minutes? Hours? By now the Lifetime movie has long ended, another playing in its place though the plot is likely just as shitty.</p><p>“I wish,” Kenma mumbles, head dropping to press his nose—colder than the rest of his body—into Tetsurou’s neck. “I wish you—”</p><p>Tetsurou doesn’t let Kenma finish the sentence, purposefully letting his fingers dip into the space between Kenma’s cheeks, nails biting into the skin. He takes pleasure in the way Kenma gasps hot against Tetsurou’s skin, teeth sinking into the side of his neck to muffle the broken moans spilling from Kenma’s throat.</p><p>Careful to not dislodge Kenma too much, Tetsurou thrusts his hips up a fraction, letting the press of his cock drag along the outline of Kenma’s erection, his free hand gripping tight at Kenma’s hip, the other sliding further down the line of Kenma’s ass, nails catching periodically at his flesh.</p><p>If Tetsurou were more vindictive, perhaps he would ask Kenma to repeat himself. Would croon into his ear that he’s being such a good boy, that Tetsurou would reward him soon. These are things he cannot do, if not for lack of confidence, for the single reason that doing so would break him.</p><p>“Can you get off like this?” Tetsurou voices instead, canting his hips up again and relishing in the soft cries spilling so pretty from Kenma’s lips.</p><p>At the question, Kenma attempts to rock forward, barely making any headway as Tetsurou still has a firm grip on his hip. “No,” he whines, pressing his face further into the crook of Tetsurou’s neck. “More, I need more—<em> please </em>—”</p><p>Squeezing tight at Kenma’s hip, Tetsurou guides him through a slow roll of his hips, punching a shuddering breath from Tetsurou’s lungs. Fuck, when was the last time he got off with someone else? He feels rusty, out of his depth. Unsure. Is this even good enough for Kenma, who often has people paying him money to use his lithe body as a toy? Is Kenma just placating him, letting Tetsurou have an ego boost? Tetsurou might never know, because asking Kenma sounds more embarrassing than—</p><p>Damp, warm palms cups the side of Tetsurou’s face, drawing him back to the present with a slow blink of his eyes. In front of him, Kenma hasn’t stilled the measured rolls of his hips, his eyes meeting Tetsurou’s for just a brief second before they are sliding away, a strangled moan falling from Kenma’s lips.</p><p>“Fuck,” Kenma curses, hips stuttering their rhythm. His other hand comes up to shove under Tetsurou’s shirt, palm against his sternum and nails hellbent on digging into his skin. “I wish—I wish—”</p><p>At this rate, Kenma’s nails are sure to leave blood crusted crescents where they claw at Tetsurou’s skin, but at this point, at the point where heat is pooling low in his stomach the longer Tetsurou has to listen to these punched out gasps fall from spit-slick lips—at this point, Tetsurou couldn’t care <em>less</em>.</p><p>Tetsurou kneads at Kenma’s ass, fascinated by how it both is malleable yet firm in his palms. Letting his fingers dip between Kenma’s cheeks again, Tetsurou imagines what it would be like to—</p><p>He stops himself before the thought finishes, but his dick <em>knows</em>, jumping in the confines of his boxers. It’s enough for Kenma to feel it, judging by the heady whine that seemingly echoes in their open space of the living room.</p><p>“Fucking—<em> fuck </em>  me,” the words tumble out of Kenma’s mouth with little care to the visceral reaction Tetsurou gives to them, grip on Kenma’s ass tightening enough to choke a long moan from the back of Kenma’s throat. “ <em> Yeah</em>, just like that,  <em> yes </em>!” Kenma continues to babble, hips picking up speed, chasing an orgasm with Tetsurou not too far behind.</p><p>There are many, <em> many</em>, things Tetsurou does not know. From things that happen in other countries beyond his control, to things his friends do not tell him for privacy’s sake. He cannot fault himself for not knowing things, and yet—</p><p>Tetsurou uses a hand to pull at Kenma’s asscheek, his free hand sliding warm fingers between the extra space between Kenma’s flesh. At Kenma’s exceedingly loud moans, Tetsurou presses his index finger against the dry pucker of Kenma’s hole, feeling it twitch under the pad of his finger.</p><p>“Please,” Kenma begs, voice wrecked, eyes screwed shut. “Fuck me, please!”</p><p>“You would like that,” Tetsurou says, adding pressure against Kenma’s hole. Not enough to let his finger slip inside, just enough to tease Kenma into thinking he <em>might</em>. “Just like this, huh? Would you take my fingers dry, Kenma?”</p><p>“Yeah, <em> yeah</em>,” Kenma gasps, hips rolling quicker against Tetsurou’s. Shifting his weight a bit, Tetsurou rolls his hips up to meet Kenma’s frenzied thrusts, the two of them choking on broken moans. “I would, I would take them, just like this.”</p><p>The mental image—Kenma seated three fingers deep, slick with only the spit Tetsurou would <em>definitely </em>coat his fingers with—is enough to nudge Tetsurou over the cliff. The wave of euphoria crashes over him in shockingly gentle waves. Through his orgasm, Tetsurou hears when Kenma reaches his own.</p>
<hr/><p>They don’t talk about it. Not the next day, nor the day following. And then, it’s Christmas, and Tetsurou figures work is more important than whatever mess lies within the four walls of his apartment. In the end though, given the chance, Tetsurou doesn’t think he would have talked about it. </p><p>What is there to talk about? How guilty he feels for not regretting it? How badly he wishes he could touch Kenma like that again to the point that his fingers itch with a want he will not let himself indulge in? All of this would be useless, would get Tetsurou nowhere. It’s not like Kenma made a point to try to talk about it either, it’s not like their relationship truly changed after Tetsurou almost put a finger up Kenma’s ass while the two of them got off like a couple of teenagers. </p><p>If nothing else, Tetsurou did tell Koushi half a week later, a single text that read calmer than the actual emotions Tetsurou was feeling at the time. To Koushi’s credit, there was not much need for a discussion on the matter, the deed was done and frankly, Tetsurou just needed someone else beside himself to know that he had—that they had—that—</p><p>Koushi only replied with a thumbs up and a dry congratulations! Tetsurou didn’t bother to text back after that. </p><p>“Hey.” A gentle voice lures him from his thoughts, cool fingertips brushing along the furrow of Tetsurou’s brow. Blinking, Tetsurou finds himself exactly where he was when his thoughts consumed him—in Keiji and Koutarou’s apartment, sprawled across their couch. “Where did you go?” Keiji asks, his touch disappearing from Tetsurou’s skin. </p><p>“I’m here,” Tetsurou grunts, voice a little too rough and chest a little too tight for the otherwise easy-going atmosphere in the apartment. “I didn’t go anywhere, I’m still here.” </p><p>Keiji stares at Tetsurou a moment longer, long enough for Tetsurou to know that Keiji doesn’t believe him. “Okay,” his friend says, a small smile on the corner of his lips. “There’s only a few hours left of the year, don’t dwell on stupid things.” Keiji waits for Tetsurou’s nod, his acceptance of Keiji’s words, before getting up off the couch, those elegant hands patting invisible dust from his jeans. </p><p>“Where’s Kenma? And Koutarou?” Tetsurou asks before Keiji can take more than a few steps. Tetsurou finds his fingers rubbing small circles along the couch cover, the soft fabric soothing nerves Tetsurou doesn’t understand. There’s an itch under his skin, one borne of reasons he cannot entirely place, and from a situation he has no intention of voicing aloud. </p><p>“In the kitchen,” Keiji answers easily. This time it is his brows that furrow, the longer he stares at Tetsurou. Tetsurou doesn’t know how to tell him, how to not tell Keiji about the situation with Kenma. His heart aches, his bones ache. He just <em>aches</em>. “Koutarou opened up a bottle of wine and put your bubbly champagne in the fridge so we can open it at the New Year.” </p><p>Tetsurou hums his reply, consciously stopping his fingers from playing with the couch cover fabric. “Right, right.” </p><p>It’s embarrassing for Tetsurou to admit—even to himself—how much willpower it takes for him to unfold his legs from their position curled on the couch, socked feet meeting the cool hardwood floor. The tips of his toes brush against the edge of a well-loved fluffy cream rug. A new addition, replacing the rather drab brown rug that had been in place for several months. And while Tetsurou is unaware of just how new this rug is, it’s clearly been loved, judging by the noticeable coffee stain in one corner. Keiji’s love of non-black colors versus Koutarou’s ability to stain everything has struck once again.</p><p>“Hey,” Keiji says, polka-dot socks appearing on either side of Tetsurou’s plain white socks. “Tetsurou, what’s wrong?” </p><p>He can’t reply fast enough, words lodged in the pit of his stomach, in the arteries to his heart, in the back of his throat and—</p><p>Tetsurou can barely hear Keiji’s panicked call for Koutarou, hysteria coloring his name in something vile. Distantly, Tetsurou hopes that whatever this is, whatever is happening to him, whatever he cannot crawl out of, is over before the clock strikes for the new year. It is not so much as hope as it is a refusal to let this ruin the night for him. </p><p>A few things happen in quick succession, things that Tetsurou is both aware of but not emotionally present for. It reminds him of those moments in the morning where it is all he can do to wiggle his toes, the rest of his mind hyper-aware of the happenings around him while his body barely has gotten with the program to come online. So it’s not that Tetsurou’s not aware of the surprisingly gentle way Koutarou scoops Tetsurou off the couch, thick arms easily carrying Tetsurou like he weighs next to nothing, it’s just that he cannot find the willpower to react. He can hear the sound of Keiji’s voice talking to Kenma and even wants to laugh when Koutarou knocks his socked feet against the doorframe entering what has to be the master bedroom, but—</p><p>If someone, weeks ago, months ago even, were to tell Tetsurou that the last hours of the year were going to be with him propped up on Koutarou and Keiji’s bed, he surely would have laughed. Even now, Tetsurou wishes he could find it in himself to laugh at the absurdity of this entire situation. Stemming from what, exactly? From his inability to face his thoughts? From the mere idea that talking to Kenma about what transpired just under two weeks ago ripped a hole in the meager defenses Tetsurou has left against him? That every night he wonders if Kenma is going to vanish, knowing that Kenma leaving is a <em> when </em>not an <em>if</em>? </p><p>“Please,” Tetsurou hears from somewhere above him, from in front of him, from around him. He feels a solid weight settle across the tops of his thighs, familiar cool fingers tracing up the sides of Tetsurou’s cheeks until warm palms cradle his face between them. </p><p>If someone were to tell Tetsurou weeks ago, maybe months ago, that Tetsurou would spend one of the last hours of this year tilting forward until his forehead meets Keiji’s shoulder, displacing his hands to curl in Tetsurou’s hair, and sobbing—he might have laughed at them. </p><p>But, regardless of the fictitious world Tetsurou wishes he could put himself in—not a perfect one, he doesn’t need perfection—the reality is that this:</p><p>“Tetsurou,” Keiji whispers, voice dripping with an emotion Tetsurou doesn’t want to dare to think. “Tetsurou you have to talk to me, to us, to <em> someone </em>.” His hands are still curled tight in Tetsurou’s hair, the grip grounding as Tetsurou bends his body to shove his face into the crook of Keiji’s neck, chest heaving with sobs, body resembling something akin to the last leaf shaking on an otherwise bare tree branch. </p><p>Neither of them speaks for a time, and other than Tetsurou moving his arms to wrap around Keiji’s back, fingers gripping tight at the back of his sweater, their positions don’t change either. Only the muffled sobs and the cadence of Keiji’s assurances wash over Tetsurou’s skin. </p><p>There’s a thought at the back of Tetsurou’s brain, a memory of a similar occurrence long ago, but before his mind can take itself down that rabbit hole, he shoves it away, unwilling to take on more than the already too much he cannot handle. </p><p>Slowly, the weight on Tetsurou’s chest, wrapped so tight around his lungs and heart and throat and everything, loosens enough for the sobs to reside. </p><p>“Better?” Is the first thing Keiji asks, fingers uncurling their grip on Tetsurou’s hair to run through the dark strands. “Do you want to talk about it?” Keiji keeps his voice even, comforting, even as Tetsurou can still hear the high note of panic threading through the words. </p><p>He wishes he were a better man, a better friend. That he could stop worrying Keiji and Koutarou like this, at thirty-four. In a way, he thinks he’ll forever be burdened by the demons of his past, whether or not he wants to be. </p><p>Still, Tetsurou cannot help but laugh, a small sound tucked into the skin of Keiji’s jaw. “I don’t.” </p><p>Fingers pause, briefly, in Tetsurou’s hair before resuming their rhythmic motions of running through Tetsurou’s hair. “Are you going to tell me anyway?” </p><p>And, Keiji would, despite his fears, let Tetsurou say no. Keiji would let Tetsurou say no, would let Tetsurou ask him to hold him here and say nothing to the others, and Keiji would let him. There are many times Tetsurou wonders how the relationship between Koutarou and Keiji works the way it does when there is this, this dependence Tetsurou so clearly has on Keiji. It’s not one-sided, just unspoken, that Keiji needs him just as badly, needs him and Koutarou to quiet his mind with the mess of things that Tetsurou once was privy to hearing. </p><p>If Tetsurou did not wish to talk, he knows no matter how much Keiji wishes for the opposite, Keiji would let him stay silent. </p><p>“I don’t want to,” Tetsurou says, words dripping from his tongue like molasses. “But I think you should know.” Tetsurou can feel his lips brush along the column of Keiji’s throat, can feel the shiver that runs down Keiji’s spine as Tetsurou drops a lingering kiss under his ear. </p><p>Tetsurou isn’t stupid. He knows that telling this information to Keiji has the possibility of turning what could have been a hilarious and warm New Year’s gathering into a worse version of the pizzeria dinner from only a few months ago. </p><p>But Kenma left him, left him with unanswered questions and a confession on the tip of Tetsurou’s tongue. Logically, Tetsurou is aware that Kenma could not have known about the many things Tetsurou wished to tell him, of the countless stories and confessions and desires that were only contained in Tetsurou’s head due to the constant worry of Kenma’s wellbeing. </p><p>Yet, it did not stop the emotional backlash that resulted in his best friend, his only friend, his family, leaving him without reason. </p><p>Tetsurou would struggle years through high school, into university where soon it was Keiji—and Koutarou—who picked up Tetsurou’s fractured self-worth piece by piece. </p><p>So while the fear of Keiji marching out of this room and stabbing Kenma with the wine opener are real genuine fears, Tetsurou puts himself first. Pulls his head from where it hides in Keiji’s shoulder and opens his mouth. </p><p>“We haven’t talked about it, clearly.” Tetsurou ends, blinking as one last tear rolls down his cheek. Keiji’s eyes follow the slow descent of the tear down Tetsurou’s cheek before dragging his stare back to meet Tetsurou’s. “There’s more, probably, but. That’s most of it, I think.” </p><p>Keiji gives a small nod, “You know, I love you, right?” he says, hands dropping to Tetsurou’s shoulders and giving them a squeeze. He’s still perched in Tetsurou’s lap, thighs bracketing Tetsurou’s. It’s the exact one Kenma had been in two weeks ago, but Tetsurou cannot draw any other similarity between these two moments.</p><p>“Of course,” Tetsurou replies. “I love you too.”</p><p>“That’s nice,” Keiji smooths his hands down Tetsurou’s chest, one palm resting above Tetsurou’s heart. “So you know it’s out of love when I say I would like to smack you right now.” He doesn’t look at Tetsurou when he says it, the words warm with an irritated fondness that only Keiji can pull off.</p><p>The words yank a laugh from Tetsurou’s stomach, chest heaving for an entirely different reason as he giggles into the tense atmosphere of the room. “Only you, Keiji.” </p><p>“No!” This time, Keiji does smack Tetsurou, his chest at least, and Tetsurou sees the last echoes of fear in those silver eyes. “Tetsurou I was so scared, I didn’t know—” </p><p>“And I’m sorry,” Tetsurou cuts in, hands grabbing Keiji’s before Keiji can smack him again. Knowing his friend, Keiji definitely was going to. “I didn’t realize it was—it is—that bad. It’s better now, I promise.” </p><p>Keiji stares at him for a long moment, his fingers loose between Tetsurou’s hands. “You got like this before, you know?” he says calmly, words measured carefully into the space between them. “Before my sophomore year. Those months where you didn’t want to talk to me or Koutarou, and then we found you—I found you—” Keiji doesn’t finish, eyes wet with tears as he glares at Tetsurou.</p><p>Desperately, unsure of what else to do, Tetsurou squeezes Keiji’s fingers, mute as Keiji fights back bitter tears. He wants to wipe them away, wants to—“That won’t happen. Not again, not ever.” Tetsurou voices. “I promise, Keiji. If nothing else, I’m better than that now.” </p><p>“You’ve broken promises before, Tetsurou,” Keiji bites back, no heat to his words. Still, Tetsurou watches as the tense line of his spine relaxes, sagging a little in Tetsurou’s lap. “Ah, I’ll have to tell Koutarou about this, you know?” </p><p>Tetsurou didn’t expect anything different. “Of course, he deserves to know.” Rarely did the three of them keep secrets. It feels wrong, somehow, to have one know and not the other. An open agreement that anything told to one of them the other would know unless stated otherwise. Rarely, sans surprises, was otherwise ever put to use. “Please don’t kill Kenma.” </p><p>To this, Keiji scoffs, pulling his hands from Tetsurou’s now lax grip. “I’m more likely to stab you with the wine opener if you’re not careful. Kenma didn’t do much of anything, the two of you simply refuse to communicate.” Keiji smacks Tetsurou’s chest again, smirking when Tetsurou grunts in mock offense. “Now come on, let’s go waste away the last couple hours before the ball drops downtown.” </p><p>It’s only when Keiji has climbed off Tetsurou’s lap, fingers curled around Tetsurou’s wrist to yank him off the bed that Tetsurou speaks up once more. “Will you be my New Year’s kiss,” he jokes, feet stumbling over themselves when Keiji yanks him forward a little too hard. </p><p>“Don’t push it.” Keiji warns, but he’s smiling and that’s all Tetsurou wants. </p><p>Back in the living room, Keiji doesn’t make Tetsurou’s return a big deal. Instead, he walks behind the couch, fingers brushing along the back of Koutarou’s shoulder. And Tetsurou watches, mesmerized as always, at the way Koutarou pauses his conversation with Kenma to tilt his head back, allowing Keiji to press a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. </p><p>“Hi.” Keiji smiles down at him. This is where Tetsurou pulls his gaze away, the ache in his heart no longer overwhelming, but surely no less painful. Instead, he smiles across the room at Kenma, praying that the redness under his eyes isn’t too apparent. Ahh, he should have gone to the bathroom before stepping out of the bedroom, at least to splash water on his face. At least to make it look like he didn’t spend the better part of an hour sobbing into his friend’s shoulder. Keiji’s lucky his sweater is dark enough to not show Tetsurou’s tear stains. </p><p>“Feel better?” Kenma asks when Tetsurou makes his way closer. Kenma reaches his hand up, sweater falling to bunch at his elbows. Usually, Tetsurou’s stare gets caught on the puffy pink of Kenma’s scar, but today it is covered by a rather expensive-looking bracelet that Tetsurou did not buy for him. Instead, his eyes track a rather dark line crawling down into the curve of Kenma’s elbow. It reminds Tetsurou vaguely of a spider vein, but larger. He looks away before Kenma can pull his sleeves back down, his own hand curling around Kenma’s smaller and warmer one. </p><p>“Better, yeah.” Tetsurou breathes out, the touch grounding. “Just stress.” It’s not a lie, but an omission of the truth is close enough to a lie in Tetsurou’s book. Not that both of them are not guilty of these things, but the lie still leaves a bad taste at the back of Tetsurou’s throat. </p><p>“Wine?” Keiji breaks in, silver eyes dangerous as Tetsurou meets them, fingers tightening around Kenma’s for a moment before letting them fall from his grasp. “I think we all need a little wine before the end of the year, yes?” </p><p>“Please.” Tetsurou agrees, stepping around the arm of the couch, already on his way to the kitchen. “I’m sure a few bottles isn’t enough to commemorate what a year it has been.” </p><p>At this, Koutarou laughs, head tossing back at the force of it. “Fuck, thank god the year is done!” </p><p>“Rough?” Tetsurou hears Kenma ask, voice so much quieter than Koutarou’s.</p><p>With practiced movements, Tetsurou watches as Keiji uncorks a bottle of wine. “Get the stemless ones, I don’t want Koutarou adding <em>another </em>stain to the rug,” Keiji instructs, free hand motioning to his cupboards.</p><p>Tetsurou obeys the instruction without comment, juggling four stemless wine glasses—how fancy, Keiji—and following the other out of the kitchen and back into the living room.</p><p>Surprisingly, the rest of the night goes rather smoothly. One bottle of wine turns into three, and then four, easily. At one point, Koutarou pulls Keiji from the couch, a grin so wide on his face that his cheeks seem to swallow his eyes. Keiji goes without question, cheeks wine-flushed and lips tainted red but a warmth in his eyes that rivals any love story Tetsurou has ever written about.</p><p>Tetsurou and Kenma use the time to turn the volume up a bit on the television, taking turns judging the fashion choices and performances on the channel's annual New Year’s Eve. As it is every year, there are both highly questionable fashion choices as well as some rather <em>decent </em>—if not weather-inappropriate—outfits.</p><p>“Have you ever gone?” Kenma asks during a commercial break, the event anchor promising the next performance to start in <em>just four minutes</em>.</p><p>Tetsurou polishes off his sixth—or maybe seventh?—glass of wine before replying. “Yeah, once. Koutarou wanted to go, so we went before me and him graduated from grad school.” Tetsurou nods his thanks as Kenma tips the last of the fourth bottle of wine into Tetsurou’s glass. With only an hour to midnight, and Keiji not around to demand another bottle open, Tetsurou thinks he might be safe until they pop the champagne. “It was freezing. Fun, of course. Keiji had the most fun, I think.”</p><p>“Really?” Kenma swirls his wine around in his glass before bringing it to wine red lips. “He seems so…stoic?”</p><p>Tetsurou swallows the mouthful of wine before he can snort it out his nose, eyes crinkling in mirth as borderline drunk laughter spills from his lips. “He’s not. Keiji is—well, <em> stoic </em>is not a word I would use to describe him. At least not often.”</p><p>“At least not often, what?” Speak of the devil, and he shall appear, or so the saying goes. Keiji appears from where he and Koutarou had disappeared to an hour ago, from where Tetsurou had cried his heart out a few hours prior, looking no different than he had when he left. “Are you talking shit?”</p><p>“Yes,” Tetsurou deadpans back, handing his mostly full wine glass that Keiji is blatantly eyeing before Keiji even asks for it. “I always talk shit about you.”</p><p>“A tragedy,” Keiji says, tone too cheery for the sarcasm dripping off the words, happily taking Tetsurou’s wine glass from his fingers and swallowing a third of the glass in one sip, gracefully settling into the space between Tetsurou and the arm of their couch. “Is this the last of it?”</p><p>“There’s still the champagne,” Kenma voices from Tetsurou’s other side, shifting closer so that his thigh presses firm against Tetsurou’s. The action doesn’t escape Keiji’s notice, even as drunk as he is, but Tetsurou thanks the heavens that his friend doesn’t comment on it. “But we should wait until midnight.”</p><p>Keiji nods in agreement, the rim of Tetsurou’s wine glass pressed to his lips. Tetsurou has a feeling Keiji might pull out yet <em>another </em>wine bottle, forcing both himself and Tetsurou to finish at least half of it before they even dare pop open the champagne. Tetsurou already mourns the loss of tomorrow, knowing full well that it’s likely that he will be unable to move from his bed come morning.</p><p>“Where’s Koutarou?” Tetsurou asks, flipping his hand palm up so Kenma can trace circles into the skin instead of whatever the fuck they were trying to do to the inseam of Tetsurou’s jeans. Tetsurou might be teetering on the drunker side of <em>tipsy</em>, but he’s not drunk enough for any sort of public display of affection. Especially with Keiji sitting millimeters away from him, and <em>especially </em>with Keiji knowing the information Tetsurou spilled to him—sober—hours ago.</p><p>“He’ll come out soon,” Keiji says, too calm for the growing smirk on his lips. On the television, the current performance ends—clearly pre-recorded—to show a live view of downtown, the thousands of people huddled together in the biting cold of New York winters. Tetsurou doesn’t pity them, knowing that their excitement likely dispels whatever cold could possibly be felt. At least most of them are appropriately dressed for the time of year. “Just dazed, still, I think.”</p><p>“Dazed?” Kenma pipes up, more to Tetsurou than to Keiji. Unfortunately, Tetsurou does not have the time to quickly explain that a drunk Keiji is a feisty Keiji.</p><p>“I mean.” Keiji polishes off Tetsurou’s wine with another quick swallow, tongue licking at his lips to catch the lingering traces of taste on his skin. “Wouldn’t you be a bit dazed if someone edged you for an hour?”</p><p>“Jesus <em> Christ</em>,” Tetsurou spits the words like a curse, mourning the loss of his wine glass and wishing he could rewind a minute into the past so that he could <em>not </em>know this information.</p><p>“Oh.” The word sounds like a sigh from Kenma’s mouth, a little wistful and a little too breathy, goosebumps rising along the right half of Tetsurou’s body. Ignoring the way Tetsurou has gone tense beside Kenma, Kenma gathers his legs under him, leaning across Tetsurou to get into Keiji’s personal space. “What was it like? Giving, I mean. I’ve only ever <em> been </em>—”</p><p>Tetsurou, for the sake of his sanity, if nothing else, cuts them off there, praying to whatever god is willing to listen to put an end to his misery. “Okay! I am not drunk enough for this, and you—” Tetsurou grabs Kenma by the waist, pushing him back into his appropriate spot <em>away </em>from Keiji. “Are a menace. And  <em> you </em>.” Tetsurou points at Keiji, taking in the haughty smirk on his lips. “Are an enabler.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Keiji says around his smirk, finger tapping at the rim of Tetsurou’s wine glass. “And Kenma, if you would like tips, let me know anytime.”</p><p>Tetsurou thinks death would be a sweeter release than whatever hell Keiji and Kenma will inevitably bring upon him in reality.</p><p>“Why were you even <em> edging </em>  Koutarou in the first place?” Tetsurou asks after his higher brain functions decide to come back online. He does not think about his best friend getting edged, much less does he think about the lack of <em>sound </em>that came from the master bedroom. “You have company? Kenma and I were sitting right here!”</p><p>The announcer proclaims there are only forty-five more minutes of the year, telling viewers around the world to make it count. Next to Tetsurou, Kenma curls his fingers into the meat of Tetsurou’s thigh, nails barely biting his skin through the denim. But Tetsurou does not tear his eyes away from the coquettish smirk pulling at Keiji’s lips.</p><p>“Because I could,” Keiji explains in a tone Tetsurou has overheard him use to talk to unruly employees down at the printing company, voice holding a perfect amount of condescension. Keiji’s lips part again, haughty in the worst of ways before he snaps his mouth closed, guilt flashing in his silver eyes. “Why should I not, regardless of present company? You’re not a prude, and Kenma is a sex worker, I doubt it matters what myself and Koutarou get up to in the bedroom.”</p><p>“It doesn’t,” Kenma speaks up, just loud enough to be heard over the announcer. “I don’t mind, it’s okay.” He squeezes his hand still curled around Tetsurou’s thigh. “It’s fine.”</p><p>Tetsurou lets that be the end of it, unsure if pushing Keiji anymore on the topic is bound to lead to an excess of sexual information he would rather not know about his best friends. Not when he’s slept in that bed.</p><p>Not when—</p><p>“Thirty minutes!” Koutarou crows from the hallway, not seen but clearly heard. “Keiji, baby, do you want to pop the champagne now, or at the start of the year?” He comes into view, hair disheveled and cheeks holding a slightly pinker tint than they did prior. Not that Tetsurou truly knows just how pink Koutarou’s cheeks were when he and Keiji vanished, it just would make <em>sense </em>that he’s glowing from whatever otherworldly orgasm Keiji pulled from him.</p><p>“Water, please,” Tetsurou begs before Keiji can open his pretty little mouth and ask for more wine, eyes wide and words honey-sweet. Tetsurou knows his games. He also knows that his hangover tomorrow is going to be the end of him. At least some hydration will soothe some of the pain to come. “Koutarou, <em> please  </em>make him drink water, I am begging you.”</p><p>Koutarou, clad in the same exact outfit he had vanished in, smiles placatingly at Tetsurou. When his best friend comes closer, Koutarou claps him on the shoulder from over the back of the couch, a chuckle sounding from behind Tetsurou. “Of course, bro. I got it, I’m already up.”</p><p>It is interesting, to say the least, that this is a New Years' not held at the office. Or at least with their coworkers. A broken tradition, one Tetsurou does mourn a bit as Keiji’s legs drape across Tetsurou’s lap and Kenma’s head tilts onto Tetsurou’s shoulder. But a needed break, he thinks. It had been a hectic holiday season, with too many deadlines close to the end of the year. Though to the shock of both Morisuke and Keiji, there were no deadlines the entire week after the new year, and with that useful bit of information given down to the rest of the teams, they managed to finish the year strong. Tired and a bit burned out, but with the promise of not coming into the office the day after their New Year’s party, it was a sacrifice the teams all willingly made.</p><p>True to his intoxicated self, Keiji barely finishes his glass of water—an old movie theater loyalty cup—before he breaks out another bottle of wine. And true to Tetsurou and Keiji’s indescribable friendship, Tetsurou sucks up his tipsy annoyance and lets Keiji pour him glass after glass of wine, tipping him from <em>maybe </em>drunk to <em>definitely </em>drunk.</p><p>“They get like this sometimes,” Tetsurou hears Koutarou tell Kenma—and when did they all change seats on the couch? Even drunk Tetsurou can tell that Koutarou has lowered his voice to something resembling an indoor voice, but before he can turn his head to praise his friend for taking care to not unnecessarily startle Kenma, Keiji is shoving the almost empty wine bottle in his face, knees knocking against Tetsurou’s.</p><p>“Drink,” Keiji orders, pressing the rim of the bottle to Tetsurou’s lips. Despite how drunk he knows they both are, Keiji’s eyes burn clear while he stares at Tetsurou, a glint in them that has Tetsurou allowing Keiji to tip the last of the wine into his mouth. “Good boy,” Keiji coos as Tetsurou swallows the last of whatever expensive wine he and Keiji had downed like it was the three-dollar Barefoot brand at the nearest corner store.</p><p>“They get like this,” Koutarou says again, voice a little further away, “and it’s always such a sight to see, you know?” His voice snaps to the front of Tetsurou’s focus, a groan spilling from his lips. He tilts his head back, eyes slipping closed as the wine settles uncomfortably in his stomach. Maybe Tetsurou should have eaten more food or drank more water, or maybe he shouldn’t have drunk at all. It’s too late for all of these things.</p><p>“Ten minutes!” the announcer shouts from the television. “Ladies and gentlemen, and those who are neither—get your drinks ready!”</p><p>There’s a commotion next to him, a rustle of fabric and then a dull thud followed by Keiji’s lilting laughter.</p><p>“Oh my god,” Tetsurou hears Kenma say. He opens his eyes to this, turning his face in the direction of Kenma’s voice to see his pretty lips parted in a hidden sort of amusement. They are trained to wherever Keiji likely fell—who cares, it’s Keiji—but Tetsurou has to make some sort of sound because those molten lava eyes focus on him seconds later and Tetsurou feels the answers to the questions he does not ask spill uninvited to the forefront of Tetsurou’s mind.</p><p>“Hi,” Tetsurou says, stupidly, the word dripping with unnamed—unwanted—emotion. He’s too drunk to stop himself, but not drunk enough to forget his idiocy come morning.</p><p>Thankfully, Kenma does not laugh at him. Or well, not in the way Tetsurou fears. Instead, Kenma smiles at him, small and private but a smile nonetheless, inching closer to Tetsurou. Before Tetsurou’s brain can think too much on the matter, he’s closing the distance between their mouths, his wine-soaked mouth leaving a smear at the corner of Kenma’s lips. Tetsurou tells himself it would be impolite to lick it away for Kenma, then questions if <em>impolite </em>is the best word to use.</p><p>“Keiji’s in the kitchen,” Kenma explains when Tetsurou hums in question, curious as to why Kenma crowds into his space, loose hair falling to tickle Tetsurou’s cheeks. Their position reminds Tetsurou of two weeks prior, of when Kenma gasped so brokenly into the heat of Tetsurou’s mouth as they rutted against each other like fucking rabbits in heat. Like teenagers too scared to move forward. Ouch, Tetsurou does not like that analogy. “You’re so drunk,” Kenma whispers, awe shining in his eyes like stars, and lips a pretty pink.</p><p>Tetsurou kisses them again, mumbling an affirmative—he thinks. Kenma lets him, keeping the kisses light, almost teasing. Tetsurou wants to pin him to this couch and make Keiji pay for subjecting Tetsurou to the knowledge of Koutarou getting <em>edged</em>.</p><p>What was it like?</p><p>“Enough,” Kenma mouths against Tetsurou’s lips, pressing one last peck against them before settling back down where he was sitting before. Tetsurou watches him, head tilting as he takes in the way Kenma’s fingers play with the hem of his sweater, eyes determinedly focused on the television.</p><p>“Five! Minutes!” Keiji shouts, giggling as he saunters into the room, champagne bottle already popped in hand and Koutarou trailing after him with four traditional champagne glasses. Why Keiji waited until they were piss-drunk to bring out the <em>more </em>delicate glasses, Tetsurou won’t waste time thinking about. “’Taro, the glasses, please.”</p><p>Tetsurou can’t help the way his eyes flick from Koutarou, eyes fond and smile warm, to Keiji, happily drunk and pressing wet kisses to Koutarou’s cheek between expert pours of champagne, to the countdown clock on the television, ticking down into four minutes until the new year.</p><p>“Kenma!” Keiji calls, too loud for the lack of distance between the two, but Kenma just laughs—the sound light yet easily carried by the currents of the room—accepting his champagne glass from Keiji’s outstretched hands.</p><p>“Tetsurou, Koutarou.” Keiji hands them their glasses in turn, his drunk little smile infectious enough that Tetsurou smiles in return, a giggle pushing past his lips as he accepts his champagne glass.</p><p>Three minutes, the countdown clock reads, a hush falling over the crowd on the television.</p><p>“Okay, as per tradition,” Keiji begins, swaying on his feet. Koutarou, the ever-steady boyfriend, wraps his arm around Keiji’s waist. “We each say a thing we wish for in the New Year. Not a resolution, necessarily, just a wish. And since it’s Kenma’s first time—I say he goes first!”</p><p>If Tetsurou were sober, he would object to this. If Keiji were sober, he might have…no he still would have made Kenma go first, but at least Tetsurou wouldn’t be drunk and could have thought to warn Kenma about this. Yet his world is not the one he wishes he lived in, and so instead of any of his thoughts being a reality, Tetsurou turns to find Kenma tapping the rim of his glass against his bottom lip in thought.</p><p>“Okay,” Kenma says slowly. “In the New Year, I wish to find peace.” He smiles at each of them, teeth on full display with the strength of it.</p><p>“How elegant,” Keiji muses. “That’s a very beautiful wish to have. Tetsurou, what’s your wish?”</p><p>“You know this already,” Tetsurou grumbles half-heartedly, eyes trained on the countdown. Two minutes and forty seconds. “I wish for an easy writing process, as always.”</p><p>“I wish to love more, this new year,” Koutarou continues without pause, catching Tetsurou’s eye with a wink. “I always say this, but I love you guys—Kenma, you too. I wish to be just as good a friend as I was this year, and I hope I find new ways to make you all happy and to make others happy too!”</p><p>God, every day Tetsurou thanks whatever powers rule life on this hellish earth for putting Koutarou in it. For allowing Tetsurou to have a best friend so genuinely pure and bright as Koutarou is.</p><p>“Ninety seconds!” the television shouts.</p><p>Keiji raises his glass up a bit. “I wish for this,” he says, silver eyes gleaming, the light playing at the shadows of his eyes. Keiji looks at all of them in turn, starting with Tetsurou—who he sticks his tongue out at—before moving on to Kenma. Last, he turns to Koutarou, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of Koutarou’s mouth. “This time, next year, I want these same people in the room with me,” he announces with an air that makes him seem a lot more sober than he is.</p><p>“Ten!”</p><p>Tetsurou raises his glass in the air, motioning for Kenma to come closer to clink their glasses together.</p><p>“Nine!”</p><p>Koutarou wraps Keiji in another kiss, their giggles making their teeth knock together. Tetsurou silently wishes for that to be him, this time next year. If not with who he wants, with someone who loves him just as much as Koutarou loves Keiji.</p><p>“Seven!”</p><p>“Did you still want me to be your first kiss?” Keiji calls, still wrapped up in Koutarou’s arms, but his stare pinned to Tetsurou.</p><p>Warmth blooms in the center of Tetsurou’s chest and he laughs in lieu of a reply, pulling Kenma along with him as he crowds closer to Keiji and Koutarou. “I’ve already kissed you once. What’s once more?”</p><p>“Three!”</p><p>The world narrows to just this: to Keiji clinking his glass against Tetsurou’s—</p><p>—“Two!”</p><p>“Drink,” Keiji mouths before tilting his head back, downing his glass in one shot. Tetsurou laughs, half a second behind him before he feels Koutarou take the glass out of his fingers—</p><p>“Happy New Year!” Koutarou shouts along with the announcer, television sounding fireworks, distantly heard from outside the apartment seconds later.</p><p>Keiji has already tilted towards Tetsurou, fingers cool against the heat of Tetsurou’s cheeks. “Happy New Year,” he echoes, quieter, before kissing Tetsurou soft on the mouth. He catches Tetsurou’s bottom lip between his own, tugging gently at it before pulling away.</p><p>Tetsurou bears witness to the way Keiji’s eyelashes flutter open, how his pupils dilate when they focus on Tetsurou. He notices the way Keiji licks at his lips, chasing the taste of champagne on his skin.</p><p>“Happy New Year,” Tetsurou repeats, a slow grin blooming on his face. Keiji smiles back, warm and something between them that Tetsurou will never be able to explain to anyone else.</p><p>“My turn!” Koutarou cuts in, pulling Keiji to his chest and wrapping him in a rather dramatic kiss that has even Kenma laughing beside him.</p><p>“Gross!” Keiji whines, pushing at Koutarou’s chest, but he’s laughing anyway, body lax in Koutarou’s grasp. “Don’t <em> lick </em> me, Koutarou!”</p><p>A tug on his sleeve has Tetsurou half turning towards Kenma, only to stop when he feels warm fingers thread through the gaps between Tetsurou’s, palms meeting in a rather chaste display of affection.</p><p>Tetsurou doesn’t hide his smile, too drunk and happy to care who sees it, giving Kenma’s hand a gentle squeeze.</p><p>“Happy New Year, Kenma.” Tetsurou says, as the fireworks continue to pop in the distance, barely heard over Keiji’s whining for Koutarou to <em>stop</em>.</p><p>“Happy New Year, Tetsurou.”</p>
<hr/><p>Somewhere between the turn of the year and now, two weeks later, Tetsurou had finally decided on a novel plot. He’s not sure he’s happy with his choice, not sure if he’ll ever wonder what it would be like to have chosen a different plot, a different story to tell, but he’s content with his decision. In that time, he’s officially appointed Konoha to handle more of Tetsurou’s workload, his days at work no longer consisting of just editing manuscripts and sending passive-aggressive emails to authors running behind on their manuscripts, but also dealing with the inner shuffling of his team to ensure that work that should be done is still done with or without Tetsurou doing it.</p><p>The last time Tetsurou had vanished to write a novel, his team hadn’t been the exact same. With Konoha a permanent fixture on his team and Lev a welcome body if needed, Tetsurou finds that this time that the process runs a lot smoother. Plus, with Chikara taking the reins on talking to Wakatoshi for him, what took Tetsurou almost three weeks last time, takes a handful of <em>days </em>this time around. He’s ever grateful for having an understanding team at his back. And if any issues arise, he knows that Konoha won’t hesitate to ring him, especially after Tetsurou promises that he doesn’t plan to pull a sudden disappearing act as he did two years ago. If anything, he will give a warning of at least twenty-four hours.</p><p>The day, like many other winter days in the city, is cold and windy. Long gone are the festive lights, though Tetsurou can spot a wayward streamer and New Year’s party hats poking from the trash cans as he walks up and out of the metro station. Despite the festivities of the turn of the year, the days repeat just like any other, the weather just the same as it was the year before. Nothing has truly changed, in the grand scheme of the world.</p><p>Even in the grand scheme of Tetsurou’s <em>life</em>, not much has changed. He still works at the publishing company, still is a New York Bestselling author—whatever that means these days. Chikara still sends him funny little writing jokes, still goes to A Loutte on the days he pretends he’s doing author-related shit, and Kenma still breathes little sighs into Tetsurou’s mouth in the dead of night, gentle in the way he cups Tetsurou’s face between his palms.</p><p>If anything, the single most <em>new </em>thing to disrupt Tetsurou’s mundane life is the fact that Koushi is still in town. They don’t see each other often, how could they when Koushi has a store to run, a boyfriend to video call, and parents to check in on? Yet the mere presence of Koushi at A Loutte has had a domino effect. Tobio scowls less, workload made easier by Koushi’s study tips, and Hitoka babbles more about her upcoming senior show, showing Tetsurou rough designs on her phone between customers when she’s on shift. Tetsurou even sees Kiyoko—the de-facto store manager in Koushi’s absence—make an appearance, her calm exterior and dry humor a soothing balm to Tobio’s caustic existence.</p><p>Overall though, Tetsurou doesn’t see the need to complain about the lack of activity in his new year. He likes things steady, the mundaneness of his day-to-day life. Kenma arriving two summers ago was enough of a change, and slowly that has lessened to the point where Tetsurou isn’t even shocked when Kenma leaves a message about being gone for work, or the sudden reappearance looking a little worse for wear. Though those moments seem to hurt Tetsurou the most—more than the moment where he watched Kenma grind against the soft give of his stomach—they are moments where Kenma allows Tetsurou to truly take care of him, therefore they are moments Tetsurou ultimately cherishes.</p><p>It is with these thoughts that Tetsurou unlocks his apartment door, a ghost of a smile on his lips and a bubble of contentment in his chest. It is with these thoughts of how <em>well </em>and <em>normal </em>  Tetsurou’s life is going, that he doesn’t immediately see Kenma on the couch. But when he does—when he <em>does </em>—Tetsurou feels the bubble in his chest deflate with an audible pop, ice filling his lungs in its wake.</p><p>“What.” It’s not a question. Or maybe, it is a question, a demand, and a plea all rolled into one. Tetsurou doesn’t know, not really.</p><p>Two weeks after the new year, after Kenma held his hand and whispered <em> Happy New Year, Tetsurou</em>, marking the second time Tetsurou had heard his name fall from Kenma’s pretty mouth, Tetsurou feels his world come to a standstill.</p><p>There are a lot of things Tetsurou does not know, and things he never will understand. But there are also things he knows that he wishes he didn’t, that life instead let him have a choice on whether he wanted to gain whatever bullshit experience the world wanted to throw at him. The first instance of this Tetsurou can pinpoint the first day he saw those bruises line Kenma’s shoulders, that one hazy summer day in a New York home not too far from here.</p><p>Now, he wishes the world could have warned him. Could have given him a sign at the door, in the metro station, on his way to work this morning, that today was going to be the day he saw Kenma with a band around his arm and a needle pressed into his skin. That today was going to be the day that Tetsurou saw his coffee table cluttered with a lighter, a spoon, a tiny bag of white that he really can only <em>guess </em>at, judging by the rest of Kenma’s set up.</p><p>God. A <em> set-up</em>. Kenma has a  <em> set-up</em>. How has Tetsurou never seen this before? In the near year of Kenma living here, in the days and weeks and months of them cohabitating, how has Tetsurou <em>not </em>walked in on this before?</p><p>“Okay.” Tetsurou says on an exhale, like a fool. And, like the fool he is, Tetsurou simply toes off his shoes, disappearing down the hallway to hide in the master bedroom. Though his thoughts run at a million miles an hour, Tetsurou doesn’t feel the telltale signs of panic prickling at his skin.</p><p>It’s a shock, sure, Tetsurou notes as he thumbs the buttons of his work shirt loose, but it’s not all that surprising if Tetsurou thinks about it. Or well, it shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. Kenma is a sex worker, and if the stories Kenma has told Tetsurou holds true, it’s something he has been doing since well before Kenma was eighteen. Couple that with the fact that Kenma sells his body <em>outside </em>of work, to the highest bidder, to a clientele that thinks little of Kenma as a person and more as a hole to fuck and abuse with no retribution, and it should <em>not </em>be a surprise that Kenma uses drugs to cope. To escape.</p><p>Tugging on an over-washed university hoodie and a pair of sweats, Tetsurou takes care to gather his work clothes into a pile, slowly walking to the laundry basket to deposit them. He doesn’t want to go back outside. He doesn’t want to face Kenma, to face whatever <em>this </em>is going to turn into.</p><p>He doesn’t want the change that this knowledge is going to bring about, and Tetsurou loathes Kenma for letting him see this, for forcing a change at the exact point where Tetsurou was growing complacent.</p><p>Eventually, Tetsurou runs out of things to do in the bedroom and makes his way back down the hallway to the living room. He finds Kenma exactly where he left him, sans needle in his arm, and whatever drug paraphernalia tucked away into a nondescript cloth pouch that Tetsurou has seen around the apartment. Usually, it was next to Kenma’s makeup bag, or poking out of the bag he often took to work with him, so Tetsurou never paid it much mind. Maybe he should have. <em> God</em>, he really should have, huh?</p><p>Maybe he should have asked questions. Maybe letting Kenma do as he pleased was not the route Tetsurou should have taken. It’s too late now, he realizes.</p><p>“What is it?” Tetsurou starts off, too tired to pretend that he didn’t see Kenma shove a needle of drugs into the vein of his arm. Too tired to pretend that the way Kenma shakes is just cold tremors now. Tetsurou is too tired for a lot of things these days, it feels like.</p><p>Kenma keeps his gaze on his hands, folded daintily on his knees. They are shaking. Either his hands or his knees, Tetsurou cannot discern, but does that really matter? There’s a sweater draped across Kenma’s body now, clearly Tetsurou’s by the way it swallows his smaller frame whole. If Tetsurou were the person he was a month ago, a week ago, hell even an hour ago, the mere idea of making Kenma uncomfortable would halt Tetsurou in his tracks. He always had an aching soft spot for his childhood friend, from kissing away the tears on Kenma’s cheeks when they were three and four, to the blind eye Tetsurou tried so hard to uphold to <em>many </em>things Kenma did.</p><p>“Kenma,” Tetsurou asks again, sagging onto the other side of the couch, tension leaving his body in a rush. “Please, what is that.”</p><p>“Heroin,” comes the word. Mouthed more than spoken, like the idea of speaking the drug aloud would give it more power over Kenma than it already does.</p><p>If Tetsurou were the man he was this morning, he would stop. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” But Tetsurou of this morning did not have the knowledge that the Tetsurou of <em>now </em>has—the knowledge that the friend he has lost, found, and fought for escapes his reality in the form of melted powder and needles.</p><p>This time, when Kenma speaks, he looks at Tetsurou, golden eyes filled with unshed tears and mouth pulled into a wobbled line. “Heroin,” Kenma croaks out, eyes narrowing to keep the tears at bay.</p><p>A thousand questions run wild through Tetsurou’s mind, ranging from how often Kenma uses it to when he got addicted, to even <em>if </em>he was addicted. The most pressing is the reasons <em>why  </em> Kenma uses, if he’s been high in this house, if Tetsurou has touched him—if Kenma has <em>used </em>him. It’s different, Tetsurou thinks, watching Kenma blink back tears. It’s different when Tetsurou believes he is being used as a distraction from the life Kenma lives outside of these walls, away from Tetsurou’s eyes. There’s a  <em> difference </em>between knowing that there is a part of Kenma Tetsurou does not understand and will never understand and <em>seeing </em>the product of that lack of knowledge.</p><p>These are questions that Tetsurou knows he has a right to ask, questions that he should demand answers of. If Tetsurou were to throw Kenma out now, to tell him to pack up and leave and figure his addiction out away from these apartment walls Tetsurou has called home for <em>years</em>, it would be within his right to do so.</p><p><em> Oh</em>, how far back did this run? Did Kenma use it when they met at A Loutte in the beginning? Did Kenma come meet him <em>high</em>? How would Tetsurou know? Was this not information Kenma didn’t think to disclose to him when they started to live together? Why was this not something Tetsurou was ever <em>told </em>—</p><p>“What do you want for dinner?” Tetsurou asks, ignoring the ache in his chest that has everything to do with the man sitting feet from him, gripping his knees so hard that his knuckles have turned white. “I’ll order in.”</p><p>“Okay.” Kenma looks at him, and Tetsurou is thrown back to their earlier meetings, where Kenma would stare at him, gaze searching for an answer Tetsurou didn’t know the question to. Now, he wonders if Kenma ever found what he wanted. Except, unlike before, these eyes don’t hold the same calculating glint to them, the same ferocity they did two winters ago in the warmth of A Loutte. These are eyes searching for an answer Tetsurou <em>does </em>know the question to. He’s just not sure of the answer himself.</p><p>“Are you,” Tetsurou starts, cutting himself off with a bite to his lip. Does he want to know? Should he know? Will knowing <em>truly </em>better the situation they have found themselves in? “Are you high, right now?” He knows the answer to this, considering the fact that Tetsurou walked into his apartment to find Kenma pushing a syringe of fucking  <em> heroin </em>into his veins. Tetsurou knows the answer, but there is something validating in hearing Kenma speak the words himself. </p><p>It’s the slow inhale, audible even with the muted city traffic rushing floors below them. It’s the way Kenma blinks, measured as if one wrong move will set Tetsurou off. Tetsurou isn’t sure if that’s an accurate assumption since his body both feels heavy with exhaustion and livewire tense in anxiety—in anger. In disappointment, mostly. “Yes,” Kenma speaks the word clearly, forcibly pushed between his lips like it pains him to speak it.</p><p>There is little for Tetsurou to do except nod, except <em>accept </em>that this is the life he has been given and this is the change the new year is going to bring to him. “Okay,” he says in reply. “What would you like for dinner?”</p><p>And, to Tetsurou’s surprise, life goes on.</p><p>Life does not stop because Kenma does heroin. Life does not slow its roll because Tetsurou finds himself struggling with a knowledge he did not want, with a piece of knowledge similar to the one he had at sixteen. He feels lost, as the days pass, too hurt to bring the subject up again, too scared to push Kenma <em>too far </em>and risk losing him. To have him disappear, to have a repeat of eighteen years ago. It keeps Tetsurou up at night, long after Kenma has fallen asleep, head pillowed on Tetsurou’s chest. Like nothing’s changed. Like Kenma didn’t uproot the normalcy of the past ten months with a simple mistake—and is <em>mistake </em>the word Tetsurou should be using here? Is this—this <em>addiction</em>, maybe, a mistake? An error, perhaps, in Kenma’s judgment, to shoot up fucking drugs on Tetsurou’s couch. The same couch that just a month ago, Kenma climbed into his lap, and was Kenma high for that too? Did Kenma drug himself up before Tetsurou got home that evening, or when Tetsurou wasn’t paying attention, and then wait for it to hit his system and climb into Tetsurou’s lap?</p><p>The thought makes Tetsurou feel sick. It colors the already horribly regretful experience—one of the best experiences in some time—into something abhorrent. Tetsurou wishes he could take it back, the touches, the memories, <em> everything</em>.</p><p>Yet, life goes on still. Night turning to morning. The cycle continues as Tetsurou dreads the moments Kenma is home, and fears for him the second Kenma walks out the door. And now that Tetsurou knows, he sees the little cloth pouch everywhere, mocking him. The more time that passes, hours to days to suddenly a week, Tetsurou realizes the pouch has rarely moved from its mocking spot in the bathroom, tucked in the corner, almost as if it has been forgotten. It’s been there, Tetsurou notes, for the better part of the week.</p><p>He means to question Kenma about it if this addiction is less of an addiction and more of a means to escape, but Tetsurou never gets the chance to.</p><p>Never gets the chance to ask Kenma the inner workings of what possibly could be going on because the one day that Tetsurou goes out to sit at A Loutte, forcing himself to do actual <em>work </em>for his upcoming novel, he comes home to be greeted with the sounds of vomiting from the guest bathroom—the bathroom Tetsurou has only used a handful of times.</p><p>Tetsurou never gets the chance to ask Kenma questions because he finds his childhood friend, the one he would openly fight the world to protect, curled defenseless against the toilet, clad only in a pair of sweatpants. Kenma’s covered in sweat, Tetsurou notes, wincing when Kenma lifts his head off the toilet seat to retch into the bowl, bile splashing into the water below.</p><p>“Fuck,” Tetsurou breathes out, taking in the way Kenma shakes, seemingly unaware of Tetsurou’s presence. Stepping forward, Tetsurou leans down, uncaring of the fact that Kenma looked and smelled like a shower could do him good, hand lightly tapping the top of Kenma’s shoulder. “Kenma, fuck, are you okay?”</p><p>In the back of Tetsurou’s mind, he hopes that this is just food poisoning, or Kenma coming down with a nasty flu, but he knows. He knows that is not the case.</p><p>Another heave into the toilet brings forth no new fluids, and Kenma whimpers into the toilet bowl, the sound echoing out into the rest of the bathroom. “Fuck you,” Kenma spits, clearly angry but too exhausted to do more than lay his head back against the toilet seat. “Go away.”</p><p>If there is one thing Tetsurou learned from Keiji’s mother-henning during their college years, is that the words <em>go away </em>rarely mean leave. That the words are often a cry for help, a plea to <em>stay</em>, to do something, to ease whatever burden is plaguing the speaker’s mind.</p><p>“No.” Tetsurou is firm with the word, crouching down to easier smooth his hand down the sweat-slick line of Kenma’s back. “Tell me what you need, what can I do?”</p><p>Under his palm, Kenma shakes and shakes and <em>shakes</em>, tremors so violent that Tetsurou wonders how his teeth aren’t chattering at the movement. Under his watchful eye, Tetsurou sees Kenma shrink in on himself, the grey tint to his skin becoming more apparent just seconds before Kenma is heaving himself upright, a gasp cut short with another vicious retch that leaves him choking, coughing out spit and bile and phlegm. It’s disgusting.</p><p>Tetsurou wants to cry. Wants to scoop Kenma into his arms and hold him in this fairly clean, unused bathroom and protect him from whatever demons that are clearly wrapped tight around Kenma’s heart. Tetsurou desperately wishes this were twenty years ago, when Kenma being sick would be nothing more than Tetsurou wrapping him in blankets and telling him that it would pass. Or that it was twenty-five years ago, Tetsurou helping Kenma’s mother carry porridge and ginger tea to Kenma’s room, crawling onto his bed to sit next to his sickly friend and spoon feed him until Kenma got tired of his babying and shoved Tetsurou away with an annoyed grunt.</p><p>Only, they are not nine and seven, nor are they fourteen and twelve. Tetsurou cannot hold Kenma in his arms and tell him that everything will be okay because Tetsurou doesn’t believe those words himself. There is no way to phone Kenma’s mother to ask her how to make the perfect porridge she always made for Kenma and Tetsurou when they fell ill—the recipe died with her and nothing Tetsurou’s own mother tried ever could replicate it.</p><p>They are no longer children, and the world has long stopped being kind to them.</p><p>“Please,” Kenma finally whispers, voice cracking with disuse. “I just want, I want—”</p><p>It is at that moment that Tetsurou comes to the conclusion that while this is a drug-related problem—how could it not be?—he has gotten the meaning of Kenma’s reasons for being here all wrong. This is not a possible overdose, however minor. These are withdrawals.</p><p>Tetsurou did this to Kenma. Tetsurou, with his silence and awkward words and clear confusion on how he should treat Kenma now that he knew his secret. <em> He </em>did this to Kenma.</p><p>This is his fault.</p><p>“Do you, really?” Tetsurou knows that if Kenma truly needed those drugs, to stop this, to feel better and get through the rest of the day, Tetsurou would get it for him. He would do whatever he could to stop <em>this</em>. “Do you really need them?”</p><p>Tetsurou pays attention to the sluggish way Kenma’s eyes slide shut, the shuddering under his palm, the sick grey pallor to his skin. Every second that passes without reply is another second that Tetsurou fears that withdrawals or not, there is a good chance Kenma needs a medical professional to help him through this. Not Tetsurou, a thirty-four-year-old author-slash-editor who spends most of his days writing a fantasy world that will never exist.</p><p>“I don’t want them,” Kenma speaks slowly, brows furrowing together as he talks. “I don’t want them, I don’t want them, I don’t want this!” Despite the rasp to his voice, Kenma raises the volume of his tone until he’s coughing into the toilet bowl, sudden sobs shaking his shoulders.</p><p>Tetsurou doesn’t know what to do. Or what he can do, or even what he <em>should </em>do. There is no guidebook to these things, no  <em> How To Deal with Someone Else’s Withdrawals: For Dummies </em>in the self-help section of the bookstore. No, there is just Tetsurou, awkward and ill-fitted for the role Kenma has entrusted him with.</p><p>“Okay, I won’t give them to you.” Kenma seems to cry harder at the words, sweat cooling on his body as he begins to sag further against the toilet. “Let’s get you washed up and in bed at least, okay?”</p><p>Somehow Tetsurou manages to wipe Kenma down enough, the slow run of a washcloth down what must be overly sensitive skin by the way Kenma whimpers at every pass over. It’s a miracle Tetsurou gets Kenma into bed, Tetsurou is not what many would consider strong and Kenma isn’t exactly <em>light</em>.</p><p>Despite all of this, the sobbing and the vomiting and the screaming at Tetsurou to leave Kenma alone, Tetsurou finds that time has in fact passed. What was barely dinner time when he came home from A Loutte is now easily past midnight. It’s odd, Tetsurou muses, flushing the guest bathroom toilet and wiping down all of the surfaces with disinfectant wipes before tossing them in the trash. It’s odd, Tetsurou repeats to himself as he gets two cups of water—both for Kenma—and heads back to the bedroom. It’s odd that time passes in moments like these, where Tetsurou believes it should stop. It’s unbelievable that next door, in the apartment over, or above, or below him, life continues to move on. That there are people unaware of Kenma’s plight, of Tetsurou’s insecurities and failings as a friend.</p><p>Setting down both cups of water on Tetsurou’s side of the bed, Tetsurou takes care to ensure that Kenma is comfortable before daring to climb under the covers. Immediately, Tetsurou is met with faintly soapy-smelling hair in his face, Kenma’s body plastering himself along the line of Tetsurou’s side.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Kenma whispers, followed by a single hiccup. With slow movements, Tetsurou feels the two of them gravitate closer together, shifting so that Tetsurou can curl his body around Kenma’s like a protective shield.</p><p>It is like that that Tetsurou lets the first tears of the night fall from his eyes, disappearing silently into Kenma’s hair. It is like that, that Tetsurou tightens his hold on Kenma’s sleep shirt, knuckles cracking at the strength of his grip. There is only silence as Tetsurou cries, for the loss of the past, for the uncertainty of the future, but Tetsurou knows that Kenma is awake, aching to grab the little worn pouch Tetsurou had left on the bathroom counter, unsure if it was within his right to touch it.</p><p>Like most nights, Tetsurou does not recall the moment he slipped from wakefulness to sleep, but even before Tetsurou dares to open his eyes to the morning light filtering in from the window Tetsurou forgot to close the evening before, he knows.</p><p>Kenma is gone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Depending on both my schedule and M's schedule, expect an update somewhere...mid-July. Chapter 11 is in edits but i wont even think about posting it until I'm done (or almost done) with chapter 12 and I'm still in classes. so...july.</p><p><a href="https://twitter.com/mutsukx">twitter</a> // <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1i5dOq5DsBVOUJVj21jKgM?si=g7xuPXsmS7q_XWOy37LQ7w">fic playlist</a> // <a href="https://twitter.com/hashtag/wwydfic?src=hashtag_click">fic updates</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>